


On Our Way Home

by starseeker95



Series: All My Life [5]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Also Sean wasn't born, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Body Worship, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Oral Sex, Paul is a boss, Purging, Suicidal Thoughts, The tags will change as time goes on so beware, Touch-Starved, Yoko is the villain, dont like dont read, sorry sean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseeker95/pseuds/starseeker95
Summary: A single desperate phone call from John changes everything and Paul realizes that second chances are for taking... especially when it comes to those you love.Set in late 1980. The tags for this fic are subject to change. Read the tags carefully. This is a work of fiction and does not reflect reality. Don’t like, don’t read.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney, past John Lennon/May Pang
Series: All My Life [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909093
Comments: 571
Kudos: 285





	1. Paul

It was nearing 5 am when the phone rang, jolting Paul awake. Beside him, Linda groaned. “Who could be calling this early?”

Paul grunted as he reached for the offending mechanism, half-tempted to toss it across the room. He’d been having the most pleasant dream.

_… soft covers, light falling through sheer curtains… muffled moans and wet kisses… the shadow of the Eiffel tower outside…_

Harsh breathing greeted him on the other end of the line, pulling Paul fully awake at last. “I… hello?”

A choking sound came through the speaker, hitting Paul like an arrow through the chest. Paul would know that broken sob anywhere. “John? John, what’s wrong?”

A pathetic question really. _Everything_ was wrong lately.

When another quiet whimper answered him, Paul’s thoughts began to run wild. “Is it Yoko? John, what’s happened? Is she alright?”

John pulled in an audible breath. “No! I mean, yes? I mean… she's fine, Paul. She's fine. We’re fine. This… This is fine. Yeah.”

“Then why are you-”

“I just… I don’t know anymore, Paul.”

Paul couldn’t quite hold back the sigh that escaped into the receiver. “John, I’m going to call you back in two minutes, ‘right?”

As Paul kicked himself free of the covers and assured Linda that everything was okay, a small voice reached him through the phone. “Please hurry.”

Paul stopped cold, detecting the broken quality of John’s voice. Before he could say anything in response though, the line went dead and Paul was left with only the eerie hum of the dial tone.

Hurrying into a pair of boxers, Paul stumbled his way out of the bedroom and into his music studio, pulling the door shut behind himself. There was something deeply unsettling in John’s voice, something that he’d never heard before… something rooted deeper than drunkenness or the haze of drugs.

With clumsy fingers, Paul tore the phone from its hook and dialed the number he’d ached to dial more times than he could count.

Relief washed over him when, after four rings, there was a dull click. But the feeling quickly evaporated when an all too familiar monotone came over the line.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Paul took a steadying breath, trying to relax his suddenly tense jaw. “Yoko. Can I talk to John please? I was just-”

“He’s busy.”

In the background, Paul heard a quiet protest that was quickly silenced. Then Yoko was back, her voice muffled and closer to the receiver than it had been before. “He isn’t well-”

Paul tore his fingers through his hair, frustration mounting. “Just let me talk to him. One minute-”

“No.”

“I… what?”

There was a long pause on Yoko’s end, broken up by a low, indecipherable exchange. Then, a shuffling sound as the phone changed hands.

John’s voice, a bit steadier than it had been before, reached Paul at last. “I’m okay, Paul. Really I am.”

“You wouldn’t have called me if you were okay.”

“It was just a moment, you know, just a-”

“Tell me what’s going on. Get rid of her and talk to me, Johnny.”

The pet name seemed to work and Paul heard John release a shaky breath. John pulled back from the phone and a loud protest came from the background, a rising female voice arguing against what sounded like a resigned mutter. The exchange continued until the distant echo of a slamming door made Paul jump.

John’s voice was strained when he finally spoke again. “I’m fine, Paul. Just a bit knackered, is all.” The man swallowed audibly. Paul wondered if the lies he spoke tasted as badly as hearing them did.

“John… what’s going on?”

“I’m okay-”

“You clearly weren’t. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me…”

Another seemingly endless pause followed. Then a whisper, so quiet that Paul thought he could’ve imagined it.

“I can’t breathe.”

Paul paused, taken back. “What do you mean? Johnny?”

“I- I can’t breathe, Paul. _I can’t breathe_ -”

At the sound of John’s obvious distress, Paul stood up from his chair, suddenly on high alert. “Okay, okay. Just calm down-”

“There’s just white walls, just white _everywhere_ here.”

“John-”

“-you know how much I love green, Paulie, and I want green _so bad_ and I can’t write anything anymore, the music’s just _gone_ , it left me and I can’t _breathe-_ ”

“John, babe, listen to me-”

“Have you ever thought about dying, Paul?”

Paul’s heart stuttered in his chest. “W-what?”

“I know what’s gonna happen, Paul, I always knew. I can’t stop it anymore and- and I just wanted to say- to say that-”

John’s voice was abruptly cut off and Paul assumed the worst. “John? John!? Where-”

Yoko’s voice, as calm as ever, came through the speaker. “He’s not feeling well at all-”

“Put him back on.” Paul clenched the phone so tightly he thought it might splinter in his fist. “Yoko, put John back on-”

“No.”

“You- ‘no’?”

“John needs rest. He’s fine.”

The line went dead a moment later, her final words echoing in Paul’s ears. _He’s fine_.

John had said so himself that he was fine, hadn’t he? But clearly, that wasn’t true. Things were not fine, things were far from fine-

_Have you ever thought about dying, Paul?_

“Paul?”

Paul turned to find Linda leaning against the music room’s doorframe, a robe wrapped loosely around her. Her eyes were soft in the dim morning light that poured through the windows, highlighting her frame with a full-body halo. Linda’s presence alone helped to calm Paul’s racing heart.

She flicked her questioning gaze to the phone, still clutched in her husband’s shaking hand. “Was it John?”

Paul nodded slowly. Linda said nothing at first as she came further into the room, her robe swishing around her bare legs. With hands strong from farm work, yet gentle with a mother’s touch, she unwound Paul’s aching hand and set the phone back on its hook. “Go to him.”

Her words sent Paul’s heart racing again. “Lin, I can’t-”

“You have to, don’t you?” When Paul didn’t respond, she continued. “He needs you, Paul. Otherwise he wouldn’t call. His pride wouldn’t let him unless he really needed someone. And not just any old someone, will do. John Lennon needs _you_.”

_I need somebody, Help! Not just anybody, Help!_

Paul looked down at his wife, trying to find something to say. But all that came out was a weak, “I’m so sorry, Lin.”

The woman leaned in to place a chaste kiss on his lips. When she pulled away, it was to give him an understanding smile. “There’s no reason to be sorry, Paul. You don’t have to explain either. I already know.”

“You already… know?”

Linda grinned up at him. “Yes, I know. I know that right now you should be booking a flight to New York.”

“But-”

“He loves you, Paul. I don’t know what he said to you just now, but it’s got you rattled and you need to go to him. So I’ll do the feeding with Heather and you make some calls, okay?” 


	2. John

_John shuddered as the phone struck the receiver, the sound echoing off of the surrounding walls. She was disappointed, he could tell, but she wasn’t the type to shout and scream, no. She would leave him. She would walk out and he wouldn’t see her for days. And if he dared to make a single phone call while she was gone, she would know. And then the days would be extended to weeks…_

_Turning to him, her face remained as impassive as ever. “You know that he’s bad for you, John. They all are.”_

_“I- I know.”_

_“Then why do you call him?” Her voice was as soft as a knife’s edge._

_“I don’t know-”_

_“You do know. I’d like you to say it out loud.”_

_John twisted his fingers in his lap. “Because… Because I like to hurt him.”_

_“That’s right John. All you’ve done is hurt him. He doesn’t want to hear from you.”_

_John nodded slowly, complacent as a child. “That’s why he never calls. Or visits anymore.”_

_Mother poured a few pills from a bottle into her hand. “Exactly. But it’s not your fault. You can’t help but hurt him, can you? It’s part of your truth.”_

_John nodded along, his wavering attention focused on the pills in Mother’s palm. Those pills meant sleep. They meant peace and oblivion. Even after all this time, John didn’t know what they were. He just knew that the walls stopped talking when he took them._

_“Come here, John.”_

_Like a summoned dog, he made his way to her and knelt beside her_ chair. _One by one, she popped the pills into his mouth. His hands were too unsteady to take them himself._

_When he’d swallowed every last one, her mouth finally broke into the barest of smiles. “There. You’ll feel better soon. You’ll see.”_

_Unable to watch, John kept his eyes on the floor as she stood and padded silently to the door. He didn’t look up as she exchanged a few words with the staff member on duty, something about the phones and screening calls through her office. By the time he managed to drag himself back onto his feet, she was long gone, the room plunged into darkness and silence._

_Stumbling to the bed, John knew that he only had a bit longer before the pills kicked in and sleep stole him away. As dizziness began to steal his fine motor skills, John fell onto the bed, not even bothering to take his clothes off. Who would be there to berate him for it anyway? Mimi and Cyn were long gone, just blurry faces that occasionally flitted through his mind’s eye. Yoko wouldn’t be back to make him change; she rarely came to him at night anymore unless he’d done something stupid… like called his ex, for example._

Paul would care, _John’s sluggish brain supplied before he could stop the thought cold._ Paul would help you change and then he’d hold you. He would kiss you and-

_The thought made John warm at first before he suddenly remembered the truth: Paul hated him. Paul hated him and didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to talk to him. Paul was married and better off without John in his life._

_John couldn’t remember if Yoko had told him that or if he’d figured it out For himself. They were of one mind, so maybe she’d just put it there and he’d helped it grow. However he’d learned about it, John knew that it was true._

_Curling up into the fetal position, John stifled a harsh gasp as pain tore through his chest. He missed George and Ringo and Mimi and Cyn and Julia. He missed Stu and Brian and his mother, Julia. But they were all gone, some in different ways than others, but gone all the same. And he was finding his place, his truth in it all… and no one had said that the truth didn’t hurt._

_They hadn’t stayed and he knew why, after all was said and done: He hadn’t earned their love. Love isn’t free and Yoko had taught him that, had proven time and again that love has a switch controlled by deeds exchanged and lying lips. John had been a fool to believe otherwise._

_But now, shaking and hungry and drugged in his bed, John knew that he was almost there. His anger was more manageable these days and he was working on himself, cutting away the rotten bits with Yoko’s help. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t hurting them, wasn’t using anyone or being a jealous prick. He was losing that disgusting weight that he’d gained during his touring years and the rope that he measured his waist with every morning was growing shorter by the day. She was making him better, more beautiful..._

_They had warned him that beauty would hurt. And only beautiful things deserved love. So he would hurt._

_Because of her, he was almost there, almost deserving of the love he craved so terribly. Just a little bit longer, just a little bit further-_

It will save us, _he thought, his blood growing sluggish in his veins._ I’m so close…

_As darkness curled at the edge of his vision, the white walls faded away and John was wrapped in warmth, warmth that he knew wasn’t real anymore or possible to ever attain again. Laying still, he waited as the waves began…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(((((


	3. Paul/John

Paul rattled his fingers against the side of his briefcase, anxiety stepping up as the minutes wore on. He’d been at the airport for hours, waiting for a flight that kept getting cancelled. Already it had been twelve hours since he’d last spoken to John, far too long in his opinion. He was worried to call and check in for fear of getting Yoko or one of the staff members. He knew that the staff reported directly to her.

Outside, the wind continued to howl, but it wasn’t nearly as terrible as it had been earlier when he’d arrived that morning. That’s when his flight had originally been set to leave. Gritting his teeth. Paul tried to push down the thought that he could’ve been in New York already, checking on John, making sure that John hadn’t done anything stupid, helping John calm down-

Paul was so deep in thought that he almost missed the first call for his long-awaited flight. Scrambling to his feet, he made his way toward the terminal, attention fixed dead ahead. Around him, people stared but he didn’t care. One or two actually tried to approach him and, though Paul was sure he’d regret it later, he hurriedly brushed them off and kept going, a man on a mission.

_Have you ever thought about dying, Paul?_

The sound of John’s shuddering sobs threatened to overtake him again as Paul darted through the crowd, completely focused on the task at hand. As he went, he ran a mental check list through his mind. He really had tried to cover every possible scenario.

_Paul had called their old driver, Ned, and he’d been more than happy to meet Paul at the airport with a low profile car. The cabin upstate was ready and waiting; Paul had called and confirmed it that morning. Upon touching down in New York, Paul would call John to try and get a feel for the situation. Based on that- based on that…_

_P_ aul tried to breathe as he passed his ticket off to a star-struck stewardess. Sweat stuck his hair to the back of his neck, irritating him further than he already was. If John was as bad off as he’d sounded…

"Mr. McCartney? Sir?”

Blinking back into the present, Paul gave the woman a smile. “Yes? I’m sorry, bit tired at the moment. You were saying?”

The woman fawned under his attention, her hands fluttering about with his ticket. She reminded him of a preening bird. “I was saying that you can board now. Or whenever.”

Humoring her, he gave her a wink as he walked on. Really, he was grateful she hadn’t asked for an autograph. His hands were shaking too badly to hold anything but his briefcase.

A bit later, when he’d found his seat and had settled in for the flight, another delay was called. The weather was getting worse again and they’d be on the ground for a while yet…

_._

_It had started as a good day._

_The TV droned on in front of him and John stared, not seeing the screen at all. Instead, he was writing a song, all inside his head, his fingertips rap, tap, tapping against his thigh. The lyrics weren’t all there, but the tune was. He’d heard it last night. In a dream._

_Closing his eyes, John tried to conjure the water, the stars in the sky, the way the other man’s hand had fit into his own. Paul had been singing, his voice as warm and vibrant as sunflower petals. But no matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t bring the feeling back._

_Mouth dry, John unfolded his legs and headed for the kitchen. Fleetingly, as he passed the bedroom door, he thought of the chocolate bar, hidden in the box beneath the nightstand. Mother hated it when he snuck sweets…_

_Suddenly, his mouth wasn’t as dry as it had been, saliva bathing his tongue. He could already taste the nutty sweetness-_

_"You really don’t want to do that, John.”_

_The voice, familiar but far colder than he remembered, stopped John in his tracks. He suddenly realized that his feet had been taking him into the bedroom, eager to aid him in his chocolate-fueled quest. John turned just in time to see the wall release the voice into a form, a watery shape that roughly resembled a man._

_Slowly, the whiteness of the wall melted away and George stood there, slender and tall and glaring. As if cornered, John backed away from the door, tripping over himself as he moved, lightheaded. “I wasn’t…”_

_Wall-George shimmered, his long hair waving as he shook his head with disappointment. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Lennon. You’ve lied enough.”_

_"Damnit, Geo, we talked! In L.A.! Don’t you-”_

_"Your words mean nothing to me.” Wall-George advanced on John until he stood over him, far taller than John remembered him being. He smirked, looking John up and down. “It’s disgusting, you know. What you’ve become.”_

_John gritted his teeth, felt his jaw begin to ache. “I’m getting better. I’m working-”_

_"Oh, I’m sure that you are. Working on making that reporter right, eh?”_

_John felt the blood drain from his face as Wall-George laughed, his sharp canines flashing. “You always were the fat one, John. Standing up there on stage beside Paul, Ringo and I… it was so obvious who ate all the sweets in the dressing room. Really, John, it’s a wonder Paul ever touched you…”_

_"Geo-”_

_But George was already gone, faded back into the wall._ _John turned in a circle, but the apparition was gone, finished for the time being but certain to come back._

_Horrified, John scrambled to the bathroom and fell to his knees. He wanted to be sick, wanted to throw up, would’ve done anything to make his stomach stop turning flips. But there was nothing to bring up, hadn’t been for a while…_

_Why wasn’t it working?_

_John dug his fingertips into his forearms, intent on clawing the fat off of them if he had to. He deserved Wall-George’s harsh words, his blunt criticisms. It was how John was going to get better. The truth was supposed to hurt…_

_Wobbling up onto his feet, John braced his hands on the sink and lifted his eyes to the mirror. He hadn’t expected to find teary hazel eyes instead of his own._

_Paul gazed back at him, as beautiful and young as the first time John had seen him. He even wore the white suit and carnation, every bit as breathtaking as he’d been all those years ago to a young Teddy boy named John Lennon. The only difference was that young Paul’s face was twisted, streaked with tears and strained with broken sobs._

_On impulse, John reached for the mirror and pressed his palms against the glass. “Paulie? Paul, what’s wrong?” If someone had dared hurt Paul, they’d regret it-_

_"Why did you stop loving me, Johnny? What did I do wrong?”_

_John watched as Paul cried, little heart-wrenching sniffles and sobs jarring his slight frame. “I didn’t, Paul! I swear to you, I didn’t! I didn’t want this-”_

_"You don’t want me anymore.” The boy’s eyes were colorless as they met John’s, dull with sorrow and something else, something-_

_"I loved you when no one else could, y’know. And you left me anyway.”_

_John banged his fists against the mirror as Paul turned away, his frame slumped and broken as he went. “PAUL! Paul, no, please! Don’t go, I’m sorry- fuck, I’m so sorry-”_

_The mirror shattered under his hands and John yelped, losing sight of Paul as shards of glass rained off of the wall above the sink. Trying to avoid the worst of the mess, John jumped backward, only to trip and fall into the tub._

_His head cracked against the back wall, stunning him momentarily as he flailed upright, confusion and panic stealing his coordination. “Paul- Paul, wait-”_

_Suddenly, hands were on him, dragging him out of the tub and lifting him over the glass. Voices echoed around the small room and John wanted to cover his ears, wanted to hide his face behind his palms. But when he lifted them up, he saw that both of his palms were red. “What- happened?”_

_A voice came from nearby, one of the staff members. “You broke the mirror, Mr. Lennon… and cut your hands on the shards.”_

_John felt himself being guided to sit on a couch. People flooded around him, but John was barely aware of their presence, of their voices talking to him. He held still as his hands were cleaned and wrapped, the memory of Paul keeping him frozen in place._

_A light was suddenly flashed in his eyes and John flinched away before someone grabbed his head and made him hold still. A kind but impatient voice sounded from just beyond the light. “I’m sorry, I just have to check…” The light vanished and the man behind it sighed. “A mild concussion, I’m afraid. Nothing that some rest and sleep can’t fix.”_

Sleep. Sleep sounded good. Nothing bad happens when I’m asleep…

_The idea of sleep made John perk up a bit. But by the time he’d lifted his eyes from the floor, the room was empty, the sunlight fading on the window’s dusty sill. Pulling himself to his feet, John peeked into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe and pushing up his glasses as he searched the floor. The broken glass was gone, a new mirror fixed in place. The only evidence that anything had happened at all were the bandages caked onto his sore hands._

_John sat on the bed and stared at the window, watched the streaks fade away as the city began to glow, the sun sinking over the horizon. Around him, the walls shuddered and bowed, whispering in soft, scratchy voices. Sometimes, he heard Julia, down in the corner near his guitar case. Other times, Stu was muttering behind the door frame, his usually gentle voice distorted and cruel. But on bad nights, like the one John felt coming on, they were all talking, loud enough that the walls couldn’t hold them back. Soon, John knew, they would all come out, just like George had done earlier. There would be no sleeping tonight._

_And to think. It had started as such a good day._


	4. Paul

It was nearly midnight when the plane touched down in New York City. Paul’s flight hadn’t ended up leaving until 7pm back home due to the snow, having been delayed a while 12 hours as the winter storm passed over. Part of Paul was glad that they’d been grounded. It wouldn’t do to end up like John’s inspiration, Buddy Holly…

As he hurried through the crowds, avoiding a group of curious onlookers, Paul puzzled over the time change between the places, trying to factor in the hellish ten hour flight. Holding up his wrist, he studied the pair of watches there, one set to what he’d dubbed “John’s time” and the other set to “Linda’s time.” Back in Scotland, it looked to be nearing 5am.

The realization made Paul sigh through his nose. It was no wonder that he was so exhausted then. He’d flown through the night.

Deciding that it was too early to call Linda and too late to try and contact John, Paul snatched up his luggage and made his way outside. A cold wind tried to steal his breath away, but he didn’t notice it much. His heart was pounding in the roof of his mouth and a fine sheen of sweat had long ago plastered his dress clothes to his spine. The chill was a welcome, steadying relief.

“Paul!”

Swiveling his head, Paul caught sight of Ned, waving just a few cars down. Unable to keep from smiling, he wove his way through the crowd toward the other man. “Ned! I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”

Ned nodded, his thinning hair combed neatly off to the side. Besides his greying temples and a few more wrinkles around his kind eyes, he hadn’t changed much in the decade since Paul had seen him. Taking Paul’s bags, he hefted them easily into the trunk. “Good to see you too. Wish it were under better circumstances though…”

When Paul’s flight had been delayed again, he’d decided that it would be best to call and inform Ned of what was going on. He’d given the man as few details as possible, just enough to give him a feel for the situation. Paul had told him that he was worried for John and that he suspected that John was going through a difficult time (an understatement if he’d ever uttered one).

Once Paul had finished briefing him, the ever-faithful Ned had decreed that he was still more than happy to drive. In Ned’s own words: “Do you really think I’d let anyone else drive you? Or let you drive yourself? In New York City? Of course not. I’ll meet you when you at the airport.”

Rubbing his hands together against the chilly air, Paul slid into the passenger’s seat beside Ned. “Did Alice give you the keys to the cabin?”

Starting the car, Ned passed a set of keys to Paul. “I told her to keep it hush that you were coming over. She stocked it up for you though. You know how she is.”

Nodding, Paul wordlessly shoved the keys into his pocket, trying to steady himself. Pulling out into traffic, Ned cleared his throat. “How is everyone? I’ve seen the news, but you and I know how that goes.”

Paul heaved a shaky sigh. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Course not. Light’s in the glove box.”

Muttering a thanks, Paul fumbled to get a cigarette out of the box. Ultimately, his hands shook too much and he shoved the carton back into his coat. “Christ… they’re doing good. Everyone is good. I’ve been teaching Heather how to shear the sheep with the electric shears. It’s been an experience for all of us, that. We have some ewes due in January-”

“You know I’m not talking about sheep, Paul.”

Paul had to smile at the old man’s nerve. Ned never had taken his bullshit, hadn’t taken John’s either…

Paul pinched his lower lip between his index finger and thumb, tugging harshly. “I got a call from John this morning…” Paul caught a glimpse of his watch. “Well, yesterday morning, I suppose. He didn’t sound good, Ned. So I’m going to check on him.”

“You flew all the way to New York because of one phone call?”

“… yes.”

Ned nodded and guided the car north, headed out of the city. “Must’ve been some phone call.”

Paul bit at his thumb nail. _Have you ever thought about dying, Paul?_

“He was in a bad way. Worse than if he’d been on something, y’know? He just… something’s not right.” After a moment of consideration, Paul continued. “Yoko wouldn’t let me talk to him.”

“She… what do you mean she wouldn’t let you talk to him?”

“She took the phone away from him…kept saying that he wasn’t feeling well.” Paul fixed his eyes on the road ahead, trying to stay calm. “Ned, he… John sounded like he was trying to say goodbye.”

Silence fell over the car, heavy and thick. Paul felt a fresh sheen of sweat break out on his scalp and he shivered. Beside him, Ned’s jaw twitched perceptibly, his hands gripping the wheel a bit too tightly. “Paul… why didn’t you tell me this?”

There was no going back now. “I wasn’t sure you’d help me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to- to get involved.”

Ned laughed and Paul jumped, startled by the sound. He gave Ned a wide-eyed look as the man continued to chuckle. What could possibly be funny about any of this?

“Jesus, Paul…” Calming down, Ned gave Paul a meaningful look. “I drove y’all around for a good bit of your American tour, remember? Got to know you and John pretty well, I’d say, or at least as well as John would let an outsider get to know him. But I’ll tell you what, Paul. I saw something between you two, something that I never-”

“Ned, I don’t know-”

“I saw _love_.”

Paul’s heart jerked violently in his chest and he gripped the door panel, trying to breath. Before he could utter a denial or an explanation, Ned was speaking again, his voice gentle. “Do you remember Miami, Paul? Do you remember what happened?”

 _How could I forget?_ Paul nodded stiffly, unsure of where Ned was going with this. “Yes. Of course I remember.”

“You almost died that day.”

“I said I remembered, Ned-”

“And I have never seen a man so in love with someone as John Lennon was so obviously in love with you.”

Paul couldn’t breath as Ned continued, his voice strong and certain. “Love like that doesn’t fade overnight, Paul. A love like what I saw doesn’t ever fade away.” Ned gave Paul a stern, fatherly look. “If John Lennon called you to say goodbye, then he’s in danger.”

“How do you know that?”

“John wouldn’t voluntarily leave you, Paul. The only reason that someone like John would ever say goodbye is if he thought that he had no other chance.” Ned pursed his lips briefly, staring hard through the windshield. “ _That_ , Paul, is worth flying all night for. _That_ is worth being your driver for.”

Paul stared at the side of Ned’s head, completely thrown. “I don’t know what to say…”

“Sorry might be a good start.” Ned snorted as he pulled off of the interstate. “Here I thought you two were in the middle of a spat. But it’s a bit more serious than that, ain’t it? There’s no way I’m not helping you while you’re here.”

“I… appreciate that.”

“You sang about love, Paul. You and John and George and Ringo taught a lot of people about it. But even better is that you _lived it_. You and John _lived_ those lyrics. So if I can help you in any way, I will. Whether that means driving you to the Dakota tomorrow, or delivering roses to John for you every Tuesday, or cooking up a romantic meal for the pair of you later-”

Paul laughed, more than a little light-headed. “Christ, Ned, enough. I get it, alright? I get the picture. You knew about me and John all along.”

Ned grinned, his eyes fixed resolutely on the dark road ahead. “I will ask one thing of you though, Paul.”

“For this? Anything, Ned.”

“Just keep your hands to yourselves in the backseat, right? I know you haven’t seen each other in a bit, but I don’t wanna see any more than I already have, thanks.”

Paul felt his cheeks flush, feeling like a chastised teenager beneath the older man’s gaze. “I can’t promise anything, Ned. Just keep your eyes forward, eh?”

Ned smirked. “Of course, Paul.”


	5. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter mentions a situation containing dubious consent as both parties involved are under the influence of drugs. It's a non-explicit flashback, but I wanted to add a warning just in case :)

_Laying on the bed, John flexed his fingers against the sheets. Moonlight glowed on the windowsill and washed over his naked body, giving his skin an otherworldly, silvery hue. It made him look ghostly, he thought, something that humored him to no end._

_He’d stripped down, the walls prodding him and goading him into it, insisting that he show them the truth, show them what a mess he’d become. It had been an easy thing to do, to drop his clothes onto the floor and stand quietly in their midst. There were no secrets that he hadn’t already told those endless walls._

_Lying there, his hands unwrapped, scratched and freshly bleeding on the sheets, John remembered the first time he’d searched for forgiveness in such a way._

_They’d both taken pills, of what exactly, he couldn’t remember. He only knew that everything had suddenly gotten slow, undefined and hazy. He remembered how her face, moon-pale, hovered over him, framed by the night sky of her hair. He’d thought of other faces in the sky, bending over him, kissing him to sleep, of diamonds dripping from raven locks-_

_The memory followed him as he stood up and made his way to the bedroom door, closing it with a creak and click._

“Don’t you want them to know the truth too, John? Show them what you look like. Let’s show them what we look like. Together.”

 _John had stripped naked and waited for absolution, for her to see at him. And she had looked, but she hadn’t_ seen _. She never truly saw him anymore._

_He remembered the way his body had jerked as he came, but he hadn’t really felt it, had he? There was no pleasure to be found in the haze the pills caused, leaving John with only a broken sigh and a release of tension. Like his body had been present, had moved and reacted, but John had been on the ceiling, looking down at himself._

_She had kissed him and he had kissed her back, craving closeness, needing to feel something, something that the pills and the walls had long ago twisted out of shape. But when John had closed his eyes and thought of happiness, had thought of his truth, there had only been a deep, honeyed bassline and the feel of breath on his face, wafting into John’s own mouth from across a shared microphone._

_“What is your truth?” she’d asked against his lips._

_For John, there had only been one word inside his half-fried brain. Be it the answer or not, it was all he could think to say._

_“Paul.”_

_After that, he didn’t seen her for over a month._

_John flexed his legs against the bed and grimaced at the stickiness on his back and temples. He tried not to think about those times, when he’d fallen and had had to start over. Calling Paul had been a terrible idea…_

_“You are not a man,” whispered the voices in the walls. “You are a leech, a hideous, spineless creature.”_

_Rolling onto his side, John caught sight of a figure standing in the doorway to his bedroom. She was beautiful, her hair darker than he remembered. But her smile… it hadn’t changed at all._

_He’d fallen in love with that smile so long ago, he would’ve recognized it anywhere. She shifted and John saw that a child rested peacefully in her arms, dark-eyed and prim-lipped. Just like John himself._

_She stepped forward and John caught sight of her cheek: a bruise was forming just beneath her left eye, the skin around it irritated and red. It was clear that, despite her grinning face, she’d been struck recently, had been crying-_

_“Am I pretty enough for the cameras, Johnny? I’ll understand if not. If you want me to stay back, I can pretend like I don’t know you at all. Pretend I didn’t give you a child…”_

_John stared, unable to look away as the tears began to spill silently down his cheeks. “Oh, Cyn… I never wanted to hide you away…”_

_“But that didn’t stop you, did it?” Wall-Cynthia bounced Julian in her arms, gazing lovingly down at the infant. After cooing at him briefly, she looked back to John, her eyes red-rimmed and hard. “You said horrible things, John. Such horrible things about us! About your own son! And then you abandoned us-”_

_“Cyn, you know what a bastard I can be, you know I don’t mean half the shit I say-”_

_“Like when you said you loved us?”_

_John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. They always left when he got too worked up. “I’m begging you, Cynthia. Please listen- I’m trying to get better, I swear to you. You know that I love you and Jules and I-”_

_But Wall-Cynthia was already turning away. After a few steps she looked back, her smile in place once more. It was far too wide to be natural._

_“You know we’re all better off without you, don’t you, John?”_

_Dropping to his knees, John watched dumbly as she walked into the wall, her blonde curls being the last color to fade into the white abyss. Of course she wasn’t real, John knew that. None of them were. But their words still felt like stab wounds, perfectly placed in his chest, allowing him to live, but unable to breath._

_After what felt like hours John slowly stood up, hyperaware of everything: The soles of his feet, touching the carpet. His hair, greasy and matted to his sweaty temples. The droplets of blood as they fell from his hands, the sound of them plopping against the white carpet._

_He felt the truth wash over him, so suddenly that it took his breath away._

_Making his way to the window, John undid the latches one by one. Then, with his waning strength, he pushed it open. The finger-shaped bloodstains left on the sill didn’t even register as the cold December air flooded the room._

_Perhaps it would be better if he was actually really gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick reminder:
> 
> The majority of you are fantastic and I can't thank you enough for your comments! They really do help guide the direction of the fic :) But there are some on here who are displeased with this fic. I stated clearly in the tags that you don't have to read it if you don't like it. That also means that I don't have to keep you malicious messages and comments. Nor do I have to respond to them. Sooo if you meanies (see what I did there?) could mind your own and keep scrolling, I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> Again, thanks everyone else for the kind comments. Y'all are great :)


	6. Paul

The alarm didn’t get a chance to ring before Paul was turning it off, already wide awake. He and Ned had arrived at the cabin at almost 4am, exhaustion dragging at Paul’s feet. After inviting Ned to stay the night, Paul had collapsed onto the couch, expecting to fall asleep without any issues. But his mind, clearly, had had other ideas.

Unsure of what the morning would bring, Paul’s mind had raced nonstop until light began to gather at the kitchen’s windowsill. _Would John be better or worse than he’d been? Would he even want to see Paul at all? Would he even remember their conversation?_

Padding quietly across the living room and into the kitchen, Paul surveyed the interior of the cabin.

Buying it had been John’s idea, many years earlier, back when they’d thought that the band would last forever. Back when they’d thought that _they_ would last forever. The single bedroom cabin and the surrounding fifty acres had been purchased as a secret retreat, a place that even George and Ringo hadn’t been told about. Even Brian and George Martin hadn’t known about the quaint little one-story, tucked away in the southern Adirondacks.

It wasn’t overly fancy and the furnishings were certainly dated: he and John hadn’t visited since before the India trip in 1967. The wallpaper was old and smoke stained and the radio on the counter spewed more static than music. The chairs were faded and all of the doors squeaked, something that Ned had remedied using some oil from the attached single car garage. Despite it all, Paul thought that the place was cozy. It was his and John’s little secret, after all. By that alone, it was perfect.

The only people who knew about the cabin were Paul, John (and therefore Yoko), Ned, Alice (the keeper of the property), and Linda. Paul had made sure to leave the phone number to the place with her before he’d left, only telling her of the cabin’s existence as he was walking out the door. She, to her credit, had only smiled and shook her head, her eyes filled with guarded understanding. She was curious about his and John’s relationship, but she wasn’t going to press the matter. Paul still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to find such a wonderful, lovely woman.

Paul absently went about making coffee for Ned and tea for himself, trying to sooth his overworked mind with busy work. Despite the tremble in his fingers, he had to smile. Alice, as Ned had promised, had stocked the kitchen well. Upon arriving earlier that morning, Paul had done a full inventory, more out of restlessness than anything else. It seemed that the woman had thought of everything, even providing Paul with real tea instead of some shotty American selection.

But it hadn’t been until Paul opened the freezer that he realized just how much Alice had outdone herself.

Tucked into one of the drawers he’d discovered a new tub of vanilla ice cream. In a bag beside it, tied shut, was a package of fresh Rice Krispies. The items were accompanied by a note that had said simply “For John.”

 _Christ,_ Paul had thought, closing the freezer and blinking hard. _She’d even thought to get John his favorite treat._

A grunt and heavy feet alerted Paul that Ned was awake just moments before the man himself appeared in the kitchen, his eyes blurry and his gray hair fluffed. “Coffee on?” Paul nodded, mutely. “Ah, good. Did you sleep at all?”

“No, if I’m being honest.”

“That doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Ned waited for the coffee to finish percolating before he poured himself a black cup and took a seat at the table. “So… where do I fit into this?”

Paul scooped out the teabag and added a touch of milk and sugar to his tea before sitting across from the other man. “I’m going to call Linda first and update her. Let her know we got in late last night what with the plane being delayed so many times. Next, I’ll call the Dakota and try and get through to John. Depending on how the call goes… we’ll go from there.”

Paul took a sip from his cup, hissing when it burnt his lip. “Really, I’d like to try and talk him into coming up here for a bit. Try and reconnect with him. I haven’t seen him face-to-face since…”

Paul remembered the last time he’d seen John as clearly as he remembered the first day they met. He’d been a fool to show up at John’s door unannounced, a guitar slung over his shoulder. Though they’d been on good terms, John hadn’t been pleased by Paul’s sudden appearance.

Biting his lip, Paul stirred his tea, remembering the way that John had glared at him, had told him to call before coming around. Remembered how John had shut the door in his face. Of course, he and John had spoken over the phone several times since then, but things hadn’t been quite the same as they’d been before.

It had been a defining moment for Paul, standing outside that huge antique door, having it slammed shut between them. There had been a sense of finality in that moment, an intense feeling of loss. Paul remembered that he had never felt so adrift and alone in his entire life as he had outside that door.

Shaking himself loose of the unpleasant memory, Paul wordlessly stood from the table and made his way over to the phone. Anxious to get moving, he made his first call of the day.

Linda was quick to answer, her voice projecting her relief that Paul had arrived at the cabin safely. Paul told her the plan and she listened carefully, interspersing the conversation with questions and affirmations. Just hearing her voice helped to calm the worst of Paul’s shaking and he rested his forehead against the wall, soaking in her presence from so many hundreds of miles away.

When she’d finished updating him on the kids and the farm, Linda paused. “Paul… can you promise me something?”

Perking up a bit, Paul cleared his throat, suddenly uncertain. “I’ll try. Depends on what it is, doesn’t it, love?”

Chuckling, Paul knew that Linda was smiling on the other end of the line. “Just… please remember who he is, Paul. It took a lot for him to call you. This isn’t going to be like walking into the studio.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he might not be the same man that you knew. Sure, he’ll always be John, but there’s been some damage done between you. Some time has passed. It’s not going to be simple like it used to be.” She hesitated, before pressing on. “I haven’t forgotten the fighting, sweetheart. I saw what it did to you. What _he_ did to you.”

Paul drew in a breath, trying to steady himself. As usual, she was completely right. “I know, Lin… but I have to try. Someone has to start fixing things and it doesn’t sound like he’s in any shape to do it. It has to be me.”

“I know, Paul. And that’s why I love you.”

“I... what?”

Linda huffed audibly. “Seeing you love is a beautiful thing, Paul. Whether its directed at me, or the kids… or at John. You love very honestly, you know. Seeing it in action makes me love you even more than I already do.”

Paul felt his chest tighten and wished, suddenly, that he was there with her, staring out the window and watching the animals in the yard. Her voice was so soft over the line that Paul swore he could almost feel her breath whispering into his ear. “Just be careful with yourself, Paul. You can only love people who allow you to love them. And I can’t watch you fall apart again.”

“Linda…”

“I know. I love you, too, baby. Just be careful.” A pause came over the line. “Oh, and can you do something for me?”

“Christ, after all that? Anything you want, Lin.”

“Tell Yoko I say ‘hello’, will you?”

Paul snorted. “You’re not serious… are you?”

“Not at all.”

Laughing, Paul felt as if a certain weight had been lifted from his chest. “I didn’t think so. Anyway, I’m gonna try and reach John at the Dakota. Try and get a feel for things before I go. It’s a bit of a drive to get there from the cabin.”

“Alright. Call me when you’re back, okay?”

“I will. I love you, my lovely Linda. Give the littles ones a kiss, yeah?”

“I will. Love you, Paul.”

Hanging up, Paul couldn’t help but smile at the phone. Just talking to her had calmed him down. As he moved to dial the number for the Dakota, Paul caught Ned’s eye where he still sat the table. “What?”

The older man grinned over the edge of his coffee mug. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She’s is. She’s amazing, she’s… she’s saved me once or twice.”

“Ah, yes. You wrote that one song for her…”

Paul laughed. “I’ve written a few for her-”

“Yeah, but there’s that one…” Ned pursed his lips, thoughtful, before he began to sing. “Something like ‘maybe I’m amazed at the way you love me all the time…’ that one was for her, wasn’t it?”

The tune flooded through Paul’s mind, filling his head with memories of the time in which it was written. He’d never been so low in his life, had never felt so alone or rejected. She had truly seen him at his lowest, had seen him puking drunk, and yet she had still put him to bed with a kiss and a firm, unwavering “I love you, Paul.”

And now here Paul was, running off to his ex to make sure that he was alright after a single questionable phone call. After John had spewed nothing but vitriol at him for years and had played a major role in Paul’s spiral. The spiral that Linda had pulled him out of and had subsequently hung him on the line for.

The truth, Paul knew, was that Linda deserved the world. And he could only give her a few silly love songs.

With an affirming nod, Paul turned away from Ned and back to the phone. Behind him he heard Ned shuffle his feet on the wood floor and make his way to the sink. “It’s good one. One of your best, in my opinion. It’s honest. Pure.”

“I… thank you.”

Hurrying, Paul dialed the number for the Dakota, a blush flooding his face.

Several rings went by before an unfamiliar female voice came over the line. “Hello, this is Mary. How can I help you?”

“Hello, it’s Paul. Can I speak to John, please?”

“Hello, Paul, I’m sorry but I think you’ve- wait. Like… like, Paul McCartney?”

Paul squinted a the wall, picking at a bit of the peeling paint. “One and the same. Can I speak to John?”

The girl hesitated and Paul already knew what she was going to say. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCartney. He’s unavailable.”

Stealing himself, Paul decided that enough was enough. “Did Yoko tell you to say that, or is he actually busy?”

“I… He…”

“Well?”

“He’s… resting.”

Paul lifted his eyebrows at Ned where the other man leaned against the sink. Ned shrugged. “‘Resting’? What has he been doing to warrant ‘resting’? I know John doesn’t run or go out-”

“He hasn’t been feeling well. Yesterday was tough for him…”

 _That_ caught Paul’s attention. “What happened yesterday?”

Another long pause settled over the line and Paul was half-afraid that the girl was about to hang up. Instead, he voice was a small whisper. “Mr. McCartney, I could get fired. I’m not supposed to-”

“What aren’t you supposed to do?”

Ned stood up from his relaxed position against the sink, the tension in Paul’s voice putting him on edge. Paul’s knuckles whitened as he clutched the phone a bit tighter. “What happened to John that he needs rest?”

“He… Mr. Lennon had a bit of an episode yesterday.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. McCartney, I don’t-”

“If you get fired, I’ll personally be a reference for your next job application. Now, _what happened to John?_ ”

A final resounding pause. “He broke the mirror in his apartment’s bathroom yesterday. He hit it and cut his hands up really bad… Then he fell and hit his head in the bathtub. I heard that he needed stitches on his hands… they don’t know how long he laid there before Rose found him-”

“How is he now?” Paul clenched his fist and struggled keep his voice steady so as to not scare her off.

“I’m sorry, sir. No one is allowed up there.” The girl’s voice got closer to the receiver then. “Fred was up there when they were fixing him up. He said… he…”

“What did he say, Mary?”

“He said that… He said that Mr. Lennon kept calling for you. Kept saying your name. Crying for you. I’m so sorry-”

“I’ll be there soon.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, you can’t- wait, are you stateside, Mr. McCartney? You can’t see him, she said-"

“She can try and stop me when I get there.”

Paul slammed the phone down on the receiver hard enough to nearly dismount it from the wall.

Ned stared, shock clear on his face as Paul scooped his coat off of the couch and shrugged it on, not bothering to zip it up. “Paul? What happened?”

“It’s not good. She said he got hurt-”

“Slow down, Paul, running into this isn’t-”

“He was calling for me, Ned. John got hurt yesterday and he was left alone and he was _calling for me_.” Paul twisted the door knob and fairly tore the door itself open in his haste. “I’ll be damned if I leave him alone, Ned. I’ll be _damned_. He’s drowning and it’s my turn to save him and _I need to get to the Dakota._ ”

Ned stared at him for a moment before he downed the rest of his coffee and snatched the keys off of the counter. “Well then. I hope you don’t get carsick, sir.”


	7. John

_“Hello? Fred?”_

_John clutched the phone in his hands, his eyes fixed on the wall across the room. The voices had started up again and he couldn’t think, couldn’t hear his own rational mind anymore. In a last ditch attempt at regaining control, he’d left the window open, hoping that the cold would chase them back into the walls. It hadn’t._

Coward, _he thought, blinking hard enough to give himself a headache._ Can’t even jump out the window-

_"Mr. Lennon? Everything alright?”_

_Relief flooded John and he stuttered in his hurry to speak. “Can you… can you tell me if Yoko is in? Is she- is she busy?”_

_There was a long pause and John bit his lip, eyes fixed on the walls. The waves on them were growing stronger, threatening to wash out onto the floor._

_“I’m sorry John. She can’t talk right now.”_

_“Why not?” Anger, unexpected and volatile, consumed him faster than fire on a dried meadow. “Tell her I’m on the line! She’s my wife and I haven’t-”_

_"She says she doesn’t want to be disturbed-”_

_"Oh, is that so then? Well you can tell her to-”_

_A figure began to ooze from the wall, first one foot and then the other. As the face began to materialize, John could only whisper into the phone. “I’ll call later then.”_

_"Mr. Lennon? John-”_

_He hung up._

_Julia stood before him, her face ashen in the weak light. This wasn’t the Julia that John had known in life, no. This was the Julia had only seen in his worst nightmares._

_Blood stained her mouth and dress, dark and harsh against the pastel colors she wore. She smiled and John forced himself to look away. “Don’t be silly, John,” she chided, coming closer. Beyond her, another figure slipped out of the wall, and then another and another. “Look at me, love. Look at what you did.”_

_"I- I didn’t-”_

_"It happens to everyone you love, John. That’s the price we pay, you see? That’s the price of loving someone like you.”_

_The voices were growing clearer as they left the walls. Some of them trailed blood across the carpet, some left bits of spent tissues and sodden handkerchiefs. They all gathered around the bed, all staring at him, but John didn’t look up from his crossed legs, couldn’t look up, don’t look up-_

_"John?”_

_John broke and met Stu Sutcliffe’s eyes. The young artist’s nose was crusted with blood, just as it had been on the night of that last fateful fight. The one that the doctors said might’ve caused the brain bleed._

_Wall-Stu glared down at him, his eyes fierce despite both of them being swollen and black. “Why didn’t you do something, Johnny? They- they beat me head in- and you-”_

_"I tried, Stu, I swear-”_

_"You tried._ You tried?”

_Before John could respond, another apparition came forward and John’s eyes widened, pleading for mercy. Slowly, he crawled backward on the bed, the room beginning to press in on him “Mimi, please-”_

_"I gave you everything, John. Food, a home, love… and this is what’s come of it?”_

_Off to the side., Brian spoke up, his lips markedly blue. “You knew John, you knew what it would do to me and you still-”_

_"Brian, I didn’t-”_

_"What about me, John? Don’t you think I deserved better?”_

_"You let me down, son-”_

_"Always knew you were useless-”_

_"Should’ve just let-”_

_"Shut UP! Just shut up! Leave me alone! Fuck, please-” John scrambled off of the bed, so quickly that he became entangled in the sheets and fell. His arms, too weak to catch him, gave out and he fell hard against the wall. Fortunately, his shoulder took the brunt of the damage instead of his spinning head. Struggling in the sea of white linen, John fought to free himself._

_"Pathetic, isn’t he? No wonder his father left-”_

_"Poor Mimi. What a waste-”_

_"- wouldn’t happen if you’d just learn to keep your mouth shut, John-”_

_John curled up into a ball on the floor, slamming his hands over his ears. But the voices only got louder, more insistent, paying him no mind when he sobbed into the sheets, when he begged them to stop, to leave him alone. “You’re not real! You’re not!”_

_"Oh, but we are real, John-love.”_

_Paul’s voice was so close that John imagined his breath tickling his ear. “We are real and you failed us. Completely. Utterly. So do tell, Johnny… how do_ you _sleep?”_


	8. Paul

The drive from the cabin to the Dakota, a trip that usually would’ve taken nearly four hours, only took three and half. Though Paul was grateful for Ned’s driving prowess, no amount of time could’ve been short enough for him. The whole trip he’d been checking his watch and tapping his fingers against the car door.

By the time the car came to a near sliding stop outside the Dakota, Paul was already opening the door and preparing to get out. Ned’s voice just barely stopped him from vaulting up the steps to the door. “Paul, one more thing-”

"Yes, Ned, what? What is it?”

“Keep your head. You know how John used to be on tour and we don’t need that from you right now. Be the cool PR man that everyone is expecting…” Ned leaned forward and peered up at Paul, giving him a wink. “And when they try to stop you, let ‘em have it.”

Paul nodded tightly, his mind already up the stairs and inside the building. “Thanks, Ned. I’ll try. You know where to be, yeah?”

“Yup. Be careful and see you soon.”

Turning, Paul clenched his fists and strode up the sidewalk toward the entry way.

A crowd of lurking fans turned at his approach, seeming to sense the storm headed their way. More than one set of eyes widened as Paul entered the midst, a chorus of “is that Paul McCartney?” and “oh my God, what’s happened, why’s he here?” echoing from all around him. They parted before him like butter before a hot knife, and Paul didn’t spare any of them the barest glance as he walked past and into the building.

The woman at the front looked up and, upon recognizing him, jumped to her feet. “Mr. McCartney, we were told you might-”

“Where is he?”

The woman shrank back, her glasses crooked on her nose. “In his apartments, sir. You can’t-”

Paul leaned in, a sweet smile on his face. It was the same smile he’d worn when the media had been harassing John about the “bigger than Jesus” debacle. “Listen…” His eyes flicked to her name tag. “Janet. How are you doing today, Janet?”

“I’m… I’m doing good. And you, sir?”

“Peachy.”

Leaning in closer, Paul dropped his voice into a whisper, the smile never once leaving his face. “Now, Janet, let’s get something clear here. You can either call the elevator for me, or I can take the stairs and go up myself. But leaving this building without first seeing John is not an option, understood?”

Janet blinked, trying to free herself from his eyes. “But we have instructions…”

“And I am giving you new ones. Now call the elevator.”

Shaking, Janet rang for the elevator. Moments later, it arrived, the man inside gasping when he saw Paul by the desk. “I-”

Unfaltering, Paul strode past him and stood patiently in the elevator, his eyes trained forward. “The Ono-Lennon apartments, please.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Take him up, Michael.”

Janet stood from her seat at the desk and looked at Paul. “I have to call security, Mr. McCartney, but…” She gave him a sly, if still uncertain look. “It will take me exactly three minutes to find their number, I think.”

Paul gave the cheeky woman a grin. “Thank you.”

She nodded.

The elevator doors closed and Paul kept his attention trained ahead, waiting for them to open on the right floor. He kept his fists clenched at his sides, trying to ease the tightness in his shoulders.

“Mr. McCartney?”

Paul turned to find the elevator boy looking at him, his mouth pinched with nervousness. “Hm?”

“I just want you to know, sir… there’s only one guard on the floor at the moment. Just so you know.”

“…Thanks.”

The elevator gates opened and Paul burst through them, a race horse freed from the starting gate. Behind him, he heard the boy mutter a quiet “good luck.”

Paul darted right up to the door, and paused, gazing up at it. It was ornate and beautiful, an appropriate entry point to an abode that very few would ever see the inside of. The last time he’d stood outside this door, John had slammed it in his face-

“Stop! Sir!”

Paul turned to find a little man jogging up to him, his hands outstretched. A single look from Paul, however, stopped the security guard dead in his tracks though. “I… Mr. McCartney?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Paul smiled at the man, showing his teeth. “Yes?”

The guard recovered quickly, his voice still trembling as he spoke. “Sir, you can’t be up here-”

“Why not? Who told you that?”

The little security guard’s face flushed bright red. “You just c-can’t. We a-aren’t supposed to grant you entry-”

Paul took the door’s knob in hand, only to find it locked.

“Mr. McCartney, I must protest-”

Paul whirled on the fluttering man. “You’ll either open this door or get out of the way while I do it, understood? My friend is in there-”

“Sir, you can’t just-”

“Oh, I assure. I can.”

With that, Paul reared back and kicked the door in.


	9. Paul/John

Wood splintered as the antique door was torn from its hinges, along with bits of frame and paneling. As he strode through the newly-cleared doorway, Paul heard the man behind him flee, likely headed off to call for back up. _Let him,_ Paul thought, sidestepping the worst of the wrecked door. _Only God himself could keep me out._

Paul ventured deeper into the apartment, suddenly wary as he moved forward. There was something deeply unsettling about the place, like the walls themselves had soaked in a certain level of despair and pain. Paul shivered and called out into the largely colorless space. “John? Johnny, it’s me. Paul.”

A dull sob drew Paul’s attention, seeming to come from behind a closed door across the room. Throwing caution to the wind, Paul strode forward. Seeing that the door was already cracked, he only had to push it open.

A gust of freezing air took Paul’s breath away and he quickly detected the source of the chill: the bedroom window was wide open. “John?”

“No… no, stop… please…”

Despite the croaked whisper being barely audible, Paul would’ve known that voice anywhere.

Seeing that the bed itself was empty, Paul moved cautiously into the room, searching for the source of the sound. Upon reaching the window, he pulled it closed against the December chill. There was no screen, just open space between him and the sidewalk below…

“Don’t… please…”

Paul looked down to his right.

A small figure lay on the floor between the wall and the bed, curled up into a tight ball. John was naked from what Paul could tell, his paste-pale body half-hidden beneath expensive white bed sheets. Auburn hair, once brilliant and healthy, hung in greasy tendrils around the man’s face, hiding his features from view.

As Paul knelt, he reached forward to rest a tentative hand on an exposed ankle. The other man’s skin was freezing cold under his palm. “Johnny? It’s me. Paul.”

The man jumped, a thin whimper emitting from him as he pulled away from Paul’s hands. “ _Not real… not real…_ ”

Paul felt tears begin to choke him up. “Johnny, look at me. Can you look at me, please?”

“You’re not here… I told you…”

Paul struggled to compose himself and reached out again, patting the other man’s bare foot. “Johnny, please talk to me… What did you take?”

John lifted his head then and looked at Paul, his eyes unfocused and cloudy. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

“I came to see you, John…” Paul reached out and ran a finger across the other man’s face, noting the bruise just over his eye. Likely a result of the fall John had taken in the bathroom. “I missed you.”

_I should’ve been here-_

Swallowing, Paul fought to keep his composure. Something dark caught his eye, a series of smudges on the white linen. They were rust-colored and pattern-less, some of them even smearing the wall by John’s head. It took Paul far too long to recognize them as bloody fingerprints.

Tearing his eyes away, Paul stroked his fingers down the side of John’s face again. “Christ, baby… what happened? What did you do?”

But John didn’t answer. Instead, he scrambled to sit up, so quickly that he lost his balance and collapsed back down into the pile of tangled bedsheets. Paul darted forward just in time to keep John’s head from slamming into the wall and, with a practiced maneuver, he managed to both catch the other man and pull him into his chest in the same motion.

Long fingers dug into Paul’s coat collar as John struggled closer, as if he were determined to squeeze inside of the winter garment alongside the other man. Paul gasped at the sensation of John’s face, cold and slick with tears, pressing into his neck, the closest they’d been to each other in years. The feeling was so shocking that it took Paul several seconds to register that John was talking, his voice shredded worse than if he had recorded “Twist and Shout” four times in a row.

“I fucked up so bad, I ruined everything, I-”

“Shut up, John, just- just shut up-”

“-I’m so sorry, you don’t have to forgive me, just stay with me a minute, just one minute, _please_ , before you go-”

Paul gathered the other man more securely to himself and realized that he could feel every one of John’s ribs, could run a hand across his knobby shoulder blades and his hip bones too. John was almost skeletal, his skin grayish in the light streaming through the newly-closed window. _Was he sick? Had he eaten today? Hell, had he eaten this week?_

Paul began to gently pet the other man’s tangled hair as another wave of fierce protectiveness washed over him. “Don’t worry, love, you’re okay. Can you tell me what you took?”

“Didn’t- didn’t take anything- _the walls-_ ”

“Calm down, baby.”

John hiccupped, his body quaking. “Please- please, don’t leave me- I’m so sorry-”

Nothing else mattered in that moment as Paul ducked and pressed a warm kiss to the other man’s forehead. Not the years, the fighting, the sleepless nights... nothing else mattered. “I’m not going anywhere, John-love. Never again, understand? Now just breathe for me- quiet down. We’ll be out of here soon… and then we’ll see all the green you could ever want to see, yeah?”

Though John’s eyes were still clouded and confused, Paul waited for him to nod before sitting back just enough to slip out of his winter coat. Hurrying, he wrapped it around John’s naked body, not bothering to maneuver the trembling man’s arms through the sleeves. Paul then bundled one of the rumpled bedsheets around him too for good measure. He tried to ignore the dried blood crusted on the sheets as he gingerly tucked them out of sight.

The whole time, John stared emptily up at him, his shoulders slumped and his breathing ragged. Paul had trouble believing that John hadn’t taken something particularly nasty to put him into such a state. He’d never seen the other man so docile or helpless before, even on their worst nights.

Satisfied with his work, Paul finally pulled the older man back into his chest. “Alright, sweetheart. Here we go-”

“Where- Where are we going?”

Paul said the first thing that came to his mind. “Home, Johnny. We’re going home.”

“Oh.” John’s eyes widened a bit before he sighed and hid his face against Paul’s neck. “I… I’m ready. Home...”

Paul easily lifted John off of the floor and into his arms. Even through the materials separating them, he could feel the tremors racking John’s frail body. Paul knew that after leaving the Dakota, his top priority would be to get John warm and fed.

Paul pulled a bit of the blanket up to hide John’s face where it rested against his neck. Just as he was preparing to stand, John tilted back to look up at him. His face, though still wet with tears, was oddly peaceful. “You aren’t real, but…”

“I am real, John-”

“I love you, Paul.”

Deep in his chest, beneath John’s desperately gripping hand, Paul felt his heart break. “I love you too. Have since I was 16, y’know.”

Unable to stop himself, Paul brushed the barest kiss across John’s chapped lips. John’s eyes fluttered closed and Paul felt him relax at last.

Resituating John’s face against his neck, Paul easily swung up onto his feet. John weighed nearly nothing in his arms and had fallen strangely limp and silent. It was so unlike him in every way to not protest the handling.

“What are you doing?”

_Ah. Here we go._

Turning to the door, Paul found himself face to face with Yoko Ono.

Her gaze, impassive as ever, flicked down to the bundle in Paul’s arms, a bundle which, at the sound of her voice, had tensed up and dug a freezing cold nose into Paul’s bare neck. Over the blood roaring in his ears, Paul could barely make out the feeling of John’s breath against his skin, panting harshly.

“ _Mother_ \- oh-”

Paul planted his feet against the floor and stared the small woman down. Leaving John wasn’t an option and Paul wouldn’t even consider staying at the Dakota himself. No. John was coming with him, even if it meant fighting his way out-

Yoko smiled, one side of her slash-thin mouth raising a fraction. Like the scene she’d walked in on wasn’t worrisome, like her husband wasn’t disintegrating in both mind and body before her. Her indifference made Paul’s stomach turn.

Before he could speak, she sidestepped, clearing Paul’s way to the door. “He will come back. You know that. He always does.”

A quiet mewl came from beneath the blanket and Paul tightened his arms. “If he does, it’ll be because he wants to. Not because you summoned him.”

Yoko’s smile evened out, both sides of her mouth pulling up. “It is written in our stars. He and I are of one mind now, you see. I know his darkest secrets, his deepest fears-”

In that moment, a thousand memories washed through Paul’s mind: _the first time his and John’s eyes met, the first time they cried together, the first time John had taken his hand. The hospital room and his lips fitting so perfectly against John’s, their mouths coming together in a molten, long-awaited kiss-_

Paul remembered the first time they’d made love and the last time too, under the brilliant, diamond-like stars… the same stars that Yoko now claimed told her that John belonged to her.

 _We’re gonna be stars, Paulie. Someday, no one is gonna tell us what he can and can’t do._ John had told him back then, whenever Paul had begun to doubt. He’d been right.

Paul saw the first spark of fear in the woman’s eyes as he stalked forward, his teeth bared at her in open defiance. “You can shove your fucking stars, Yoko.”

For the first time he could remember, she had nothing to say back.

Outside the bedroom, Yoko’s security detail took one look at Paul and scurried back out into the hallway. Though he hadn’t a care for what he must’ve looked like (a strange thing for one Paul McCartney), Paul imagined that he must’ve looked like some wild, cornered animal. With his black hair unkempt and naked rage glowing in his eyes, Paul understood why not a single one of them dared to try and stop him on his mission.

“Mr. McCartney?”

Paul whipped around, tensed for a fight, only to find a young woman standing there. She was small and red-haired; he was immediately reminded of Jane. But unlike Jane, there was a certain determination about her as she walked right up to him, not once pausing in her errand.

Undeterred by the tension in the air, she held out a familiar-looking object. “I’m Mary. We spoke on the phone this morning? Anyway, he’ll be wanting this.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He hasn’t played it in a while, but… well, I bet you can get him to again.”

Unexpectedly touched, Paul allowed the young woman to loop the guitar case’s handle around his available wrist. Too choked up to speak, he gave her a nod before setting off again, leaving the security and staff to stare after him.

.

_This is better than I thought it would be._

_John breathed deeply and relaxed, the voices fading away into mere murmurs in the back of his mind. When he’d looked up and seen Paul there, face bristled and beautiful, like some kind of rugged angel, John had known what was happening right away. He’d been so eager for it, so relieved…_

_He’d finally jumped then. Finally._

_John smiled and folded his hands, content to stay in the moment for as long as he was allowed. At first, he’d thought that the walls had been playing tricks again. But the way Paul had looked at him… it had been like the old days, back when Paul had loved him and they’d ruled the world. Just two boys lost in each other’s eyes…_

_Then Paul had touched his face, so gentle and real. The feeling of his calloused fingers had been as familiar to John as his first love song’s chords…_

_Yes. That’s how John had known what was happening. The truth. It was in Paul’s touch._

_This was Heaven and he was finally going home._

_Paul’s voice rumbled around him and John tucked his face even closer, feeling the other man’s stubble scratch his face. The urge to tease him over it nearly overwhelmed John, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut. Who was he to talk? He hadn’t shaved since- since-_

_Above him, Paul’s voice rose abruptly to a sharp yell and John flinched. Someone else answered and John felt himself being shifted around- Afraid that he was falling, John clutched weakly at anything he could get his hands on, his head spinning with confusion and fear._ Was this real? Or were the walls playing tricks? What if he hadn’t really jumped and he was tripping again? He didn’t remember taking anything, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t-

 _“Easy, John-love. I’ve got you. Just stay still...”_

John-love. _The pet name wove through John’s mind, stronger than any drug he’d ever done. It was euphoric to hear Paul say it, but oh so painful too. To know that it wasn’t real- none of this was real-_

_“Oh, John… my poor Johnny…” John was aware of lips, warm and sweet, pressing against his face, over and over again. Paul’s voice was raw and painful to hear, interspersing sweet words between the kisses, almost as if he were reciting a prayer. John tilted his head into the kisses and words, feeling little droplets of moisture hit his face._

_Why was Paul crying? This was a good thing, didn’t he know?_

_"Home…” John breathed the word so softly, his mind quiet for the first time in his life. He dug cold fingers into what he thought might be Paul’s shirt and inhaled, the smell of Paul all around. “Home…”_

_“Yes, baby, we’re on our way home, aren’t we? We’re on our way home. God, I’m so sorry-”_

_John smiled as he felt sleep close over his head. Just like always, Paul was there, taking his hand as the ocean carried them away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this chapter before the rest of the fic... I should do that more often.


	10. Paul

Ned pushed open the door and stood aside, allowing Paul to maneuver his way into the cabin’s living room. John was still balanced in his arms, exactly where he’d been since they’d departed the Dakota four hours prior.

Ever since leaving the Dakota, John had remained asleep, tucked securely against Paul’s neck. Occasionally he would twitch and whimper, but Paul had soothed him back to sleep every time. Besides Paul’s occasional whispering to John, the car ride had been largely silent, the atmosphere heavy.

Tucking the car keys into his jacket pocket, Ned closed the door behind them and threw the dead bolt. “Paul... what happened back there?”

Making his way to the couch, Paul gently lay John down, tucking the blanket around his sleeping form and making sure that he was nestled securely in place. Only when he was sure that John was as comfortable did Paul finally answer. “I found him naked on the bedroom floor. The door was closed and the window was open…”

“Good God… in this weather?”

Paul nodded and tugged a hand through his hair, his eyes never once leaving the man on the couch. Ned shook his head, disbelieving. “You said there was blood… Does he need a doctor?”

“I don’t think so. At least not in the physical sense.” Paul sank down on the couch beside John and tucked the bedsheet up over the sleeping man’s shoulder. “I think the worst of it is on the inside.”

During the car ride, Paul had done his best to check John over for injuries in the backseat. While he’d been rubbing some warmth back into the other man’s limbs, Paul had discovered the jagged cuts on John’s hands, the source of the blood marring the bedsheets. He was glad to find that there were no stitches like the girl had said and that none of the cuts appeared to be infected or too deep. They’d simply been broken open, likely a result of John absently scratching them. Paul determined that the cuts would close and heal on their own with some careful cleaning and Paul’s watchful eye.

Paul kept patting John’s hair, his eyes lingering on the bruise coloring the sleeping man’s brow. “Jesus… Where have I been? This didn’t happen overnight… I should’ve-”

“You couldn’t have known, Paul.”

“But I _should’ve_.” Paul finally looked up at Ned where the older man still stood by the door. “I should’ve known, Ned. He would’ve never let something like this happen to me.”

Sighing, Ned walked over and pulled one of the seats out at the kitchen table. “Paul, I’m about to tell you something and I want you to listen good, understand?” The older man pulled a cigarette out of his coat and lit it, drawing in three puffs before he began.

“I know you won’t want to believe it, but there isn’t a single damn thing that you could’ve done to have prevented this.” When Paul looked up, a denial on his lips, Ned silenced him with a raised hand. “Don’t fight me on this. I’m right and I fucking know it, son.”

Paul stared, speechless, as Ned took another deep drag from his cigarette. “The best thing you can do for him now is to just be there. That’s the only thing that you have power over and he can’t focus on getting better if you’re stuck in your own head, wishing you’d done something different. You need to be present, understand?”

Rocking up onto his feet, Ned gave Paul a soft look. “If there’s anything I can do, give me a call. There’s a car in the garage if you have to go out, but I have a feeling you’ll be holed up here for a while. Alice and I can-”

Paul stood up as Ned headed back to the front door. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m sure that John’s not gonna want company when he wakes up. I’ve no doubt that he’s still got that damned internalized ‘tough as nails Teddy boy’ mentality. He won’t want to be seen like he is. Not by anyone but you, anyway.”

Zipping up his coat, Ned took the doorknob in hand. “I’ve already brought in his guitar. It’s in the bedroom. I doubt y’all will have any visitors back here, but you know to be on the lookout. After our hasty exit from the Dakota, I’m sure that people are starting to wonder where you and John have gotten off too.”

Paul cringed at the memory. Sure, he’d taken John out through the Dakota’s back door, but that didn’t mean that the news wouldn’t soon break that John had left the Dakota, likely with him. After all, there had been a whole crowd of people that had seen Paul at the front entrance-

A spike of anxiety filled Paul. _What if John was angry with him when he woke up? What if he hadn’t wanted to leave in the first place?_ “Ned, if you’ll stay for a few minutes, I’ll write you a check. I just have to find-”

“No need. Don’t be silly, Paul.” The older man looked between John on the couch and Paul where he stood by the counter. “Seeing you two in the same room is payment enough. And who knows? Perhaps someday I’ll be famous for helping reunite Lennon and McCartney. Imagine that.”

Ned departed with a wink, softly pulling the door closed behind himself.

Paul waved from the window as the man pulled away, soon vanishing in the trees as he puttered down the gravel drive. Long after the car itself had gone and the dust kicked up had faded away, Paul stood watching, his mind wandering over the scenery outside. Little snowflakes had begun to fall, dancing in the chilly air as they journeyed to the ground.

A quiet groan yanked Paul from his reverie and, shaking himself, he turned from the window and made his way to the couch. His heart sped up a bit when he found John awake, staring up at the ceiling.

Hurriedly taking a seat on the edge of the couch, Paul tried to speak around the lump in his throat. “Hey, Johnny. How you feeling?”

Dull brown eyes looked up at Paul, still glazed over and confused. Paul lifted a cautious hand and ran a thumb beneath one of those strangely empty eyes. John blinked and a single tear escaped, catching on Paul’s fingertip.

“Don’t leave me.”

Paul tried to put on a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another slow blink from John loosed another tear and Paul swiped it away, noticing the heat that was coming off of John’s skin. Paul leaned down to press his lips to the other man’s forehead and, upon detecting a mild fever, he swore. Getting sick was the last thing that John needed. _Should’ve wrapped him in more than a damn bedsheet-_

Paul bent and pressed another of a thousand kisses to John’s face, trying to hide the worst of his self-flagellation. Ned was right. John needed him to be present. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up, hm? A nice warm bath and then something to eat?”

John blinked slowly at him, not seeming to comprehend at first. It was several seconds before he nodded and moved to sit up. Immediately, his body began to tremble with fatigue as he pulled himself upright to sit beside Paul on the edge of the couch.

Paul watched as John, without ceremony, slipped the coat from his own shoulders and allowed it to fall away. Wobbling a bit and not once looking at Paul, John stood up and the remaining bedsheets feel away, leaving him completely naked.

Though he did his best not to stare, Paul felt his breath catch.

He’d known that John had lost weight, but he hadn’t seen the full extent of it until that moment: the outline of his spine, plainly visible between prominent shoulder blades, the concave curve of John’s belly beneath washboard ribs. The cavernous shadows around John’s sunken eyes and beneath a stubble-strewn, angular jaw, and the yellow tint that was beginning to highlight his dry skin-

Paul had known it was bad, but seeing it up close…

He’d watched John eat scantily for years, ever since that damned reporter had claimed that John was “the Fat Beatle.” Paul recalled an occasion when John had once torn a sandwich apart, leaving everything on his plate except for the slip of meat inside… which he’d then proceeded to eat in two hurried gulps. Paul remembered that John had watched the rest of them finish eating, slurping down cup after cup of burning hot tea in place of eating the food on his plate.

Tears sprang into Paul’s eyes and he couldn’t stop the self-loathing any longer. He remembered how, toward the end of their physical relationship, John had lacked his usual energy, how his libido had pittered away and how he’d often been too tired to take an active role. He remembered John’s sudden interest in bottoming, his strange insistence for wearing shirts and staying under the covers and keeping the room dark-

 _Why didn’t I say something back then?_ A set of lyrics flashed through Paul’s mind and he felt his stomach twist with dread.

**_Too many hungry people losing weight!_ **

Christ, he _had_ said something, hadn’t he? And it had been cruel, a song meant to taunt John, to provoke him-

Paul felt sick as he stared at his former bandmate, watched as John took a few tottering steps on unsteady legs. _God help me… I knew. I did say something. I mocked him for this. I mocked him_ in a song.

A sudden movement pulled Paul back to the present and he jumped up and darted forward just in time to keep John from falling into the table. “Easy, love. Can’t have you overdoing it now, can we?”

Paul easily scooped John up against himself and started toward the bathroom. Despite the handling, John didn’t once raise a protest. He just snuggled his face up under Paul’s chin and sighed, never making a sound.

The bathroom, it seemed, was one of the few things that John had splurged on when it came to the little cabin. It was spacious and well-lit, the claw-footed bathtub placed beneath three large skylights. Though the walls throughout the cabin were wood paneled and largely bare, John had insisted that the bathroom be wallpapered and painted nicely. Paul remembered laughing at John’s meticulous attitude toward the room until John had reminded them of their Hamburg days.

_“Why not have a nice loo, eh? It’s not like we have to bath in urinal water anymore, or share a tub at Astrid’s…”_

After that, John’s fussiness over the bathroom had made a lot more sense. Not that Paul could talk; his own mother had preached cleanliness to him within an inch of his life, what with her being a nurse and all. In the end, Paul had supposed that John’s insistence on a nice bathroom made sense. Of course, it had ended up seeing its fair share of dirty things…

Paul pushed the memories from his mind as he sat John down on the toilet and turned the water on. After a few questionable gurgles, water poured from the faucet into the bottom of the tub, at first yellow-tinged, and then clear. Upon waiting for the water to warm and then placing the plug in the drain, Paul stood and made his way to the bathroom closet.

The shelves were stuffed with stacks of pale blue towels, all arranged by size and purpose of use. A new shaving kit sat amongst them, accompanied by what looked to be a well-stocked First Aid kit. But it wasn’t until Paul’s search made it to the bottom shelf that he discovered just how indebted he was to Alice and her consideration.

There, tucked behind a stack of the fluffiest blue towels, sat a new, unopened bottle of John’s favorite soap. Picking it up along with a selection of the towels, Paul made another mental note to write Alice a very sincere ‘thank you’ note. That, and he would be sure to include a hefty check to accompany it.

Returning to the tub’s side, Paul had just popped open the soap’s cap to pour some in when John’s voice reached him.

“Why… why are you doing this?”

Paul recapped the soap and set it aside. “What do you mean? You’re cold and need a shave, so I’m drawing you a bath. You’ll feel better once you’re all clean and warm. We don’t want you to get sick either.”

John looked at the full tub, his eyelids heavy. “Why are we doing this? No point…”

Uneasy, Paul tried to catch the other man’s attention, resting a hand on John’s bare knee. “What do you mean there’s no point?”

“I mean… can’t we just go? You don’t have to do this…”

“We need you to be feeling better before we travel.”

Paul retook up the soap bottle and poured some into the hot water. Rolling up his sleeves, he stirred the water a bit with his hand, coaxing the soap into a light foam.

The familiar smells of citrus and jasmine wafted across Paul’s senses and he stopped to inhale, enjoying the aroma. It reminded him of better times, of burying his face in John’s hair and moaning, long and low. Of kissing the sweat from John’s throat and upper lip after a performance, and tasting the same air over a shared microphone. The masculine, woody scent, coupled with undertones of vanilla and bergamot… Paul felt himself shiver as he continued to stir the bubbles into being. _God_. It was almost enough to-

But then Paul looked at John and it all came crashing down, the reality of what had happened between them. _Will I ever get my Johnny back? The one who laughs and teases me and pesters me all the time? The one who went from Teddy-Boy-tough to gentle and vulnerable in bed?_ Paul swallowed thickly and bit his lip. _Where is my John, the one who loved playing Monopoly and sharing ice cream? The John whose face would flush whenever I looked at him for a second too long?_

_Will we ever get back to those days?_

Clearing his throat, Paul wiped his hands on a hand towel. “I can’t bring you home like you are. Linda’d have my head if I didn’t-”

“Linda?”

“Yes, John. You’re coming home with me.”

“I… I know I just… I didn’t know Linda was…”

“You didn’t know Linda was what?”

John didn’t answer as Paul him offered him his outstretched hands. Hesitantly, John took them and Paul pulled him up to stand, easing John away from the toilet toward the tub. Paul carefully guided John into the claw-footed tub, one foot at a time, and helped him settle down into the warm, steaming water. He didn’t let go until he was sure that John was seated, his head resting back against the tub’s porcelain lip.

Standing, Paul returned to the closet. “Linda is in Scotland. The farm is in Scotland. So, I’m taking you to Scotland.”

“We’re… going to Scotland?”

Paul paused, his hand hovering over the towels. Something about John’s tone made him uneasy. “Yes, John. Scotland. Is that okay?”

Returning to the tub’s side, a stack of towels in hand, Paul found John looking up at the ceiling, a smile on his wan face. It was a strange smile, dream-like and detached. “Finally…”

“’Finally’? John, what are you talking about? You never wanted to go to-”

“Do you… Did he… Did he love me?”

“Did who love you?” A thousand thoughts raced through Paul’s head as he squatted down beside John once more. _Who could John be talking about? Stu? Brian? It couldn’t be Alf-_

“Paul.” John gazed up at him with glassy eyes, eyes that were tired and empty. “Did… did Paul love me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny isn't doing too great... The walls (among other things) really did a number on him, didn't they? :/ Fortunately, he has Paul to help him now.
> 
> Anyway, shout out to @princessleiaqueen on Tumblr for finding out what John's favorite cologne was! We couldn't find the name of his favorite soap brand, so I based the soap's smell off of John's cologne of choice, Christian Dior's Eau Sauvage :)


	11. Paul

Something was definitely wrong.

Even without his glasses, it should’ve been obvious to John that Paul was the one he was talking to, that Paul was the one who had carried him out of the Dakota and had kissed his face. “John,” Paul whispered uneasily, “what are you talking about?”

John suddenly laughed, a disturbing, cracked sound as it escaped his shivering, fever-ridden body. “Paul hates me... and I deserve it. All I did was hurt him. But I called him… I tried… I wanted…”

John tilted his head back against the tub’s side, staring blindly up at the ceiling. “But you said we’re going home now. Paul and I… we always talked about a farm in Scotland, you know…” John’s chapped lips caught against each other in a brief smile. “So… if this is it… I have to know… did Paul still love me?”

Paul stared in disbelief. There was an intense pain in his chest, like a cheese grate was slowly tearing his heart into tiny pieces. “You… John do you really think that I hate you? Wait, do you think you’re-”

“Why wouldn’t- why not?” John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and stuttered out a harsh sigh. “Never mind. But I do… I love Paul. Always did.”

Fever-bright eyes turned back to Paul, suddenly worried. “Can I tell him that? His mum comes to him in dreams… maybe I’ll tell him in a dream then. Yes. I’ll tell him that I love him…”

Paul stared.

He stared, unable to speak or move, until John, seeming to sense his distress, turned and looked at him. “Why… why are you crying?”

“Because this _is_ real, love. This _is_ real…”

And that was the tragedy of it, wasn’t it? This _was_ real. John was sick and hurting and it was _real_ , Paul had _really_ left him when John had needed him most. And now, they were together again, but John had convinced himself that Paul hated him, had convinced himself that Paul coming to help him wasn’t possible, wasn’t _real_ -

But hadn’t Paul played a role in that? Hadn’t Paul made it easier for John to believe those things, to adopt them as facts? With the songs and the divorce and so much _nastiness_ between them… Paul had written those songs and they had been festering like a wound, hadn’t they? A painful, infected wound that had only grown on John’s heart and had only nicked Paul’s-

Fingers brushed across Paul’s face and he jumped, almost falling backward on his arse.

Coming back to himself, Paul found John right in front of him, a dripping hand clumsily brushing the tears from his face. And though John’s voice was raspy and breathless, it was clear enough to Paul that he was trying to sing.

_“-but if you have to go away- if you have to go- now and then- I miss you-”_

Paul had never heard the song before, could barely make out the words over his own harsh breathing. But he held still as John continued wiping away his tears, singing softly all the while.

_“- if we must start again- I love you- I don’t want to lose you-”_

And suddenly, as if looking through a storm and seeing the sun, Paul understood.

John had written songs for years, many of them just as scathing as or even more so than his own. No one had forgotten the acid that John had spewed in “How Do You Sleep?”, or all of the interviews where he’d declared that he didn’t miss Paul or the band at all. John, really, had said and sung horrible things too. But _this. This song-_

“For Paul.”

Paul connected eyes with John. The other man’s hand rested lightly against Paul’s cheek, a silent steadying connection between them. John cleared his throat, his eyes still distant, but a bit brighter than they’d previously been. “That song… I wrote that one for Paul. For Paul. Because I loved Paul. No, I _love_ Paul. I love him. Right now. I love…”

John sighed quietly and let his hand drop from Paul’s face. He looked suddenly exhausted as he sank back down into the tub, the water sloshing a bit as he moved. Paul felt as if all of the air had been punched out of his chest. “Oh, Johnny. I love you, too. I love you so much… I never stopped.”

But John didn’t respond as he laid back in the tub, his eyes hooded and dreary once more.

With the same careful reverence owed to all fragile, priceless things, Paul busied himself with bathing John. He made sure to keep his hands light as he swept the soap across the other man’s tensed body in even strokes, taking caution as he washed the worst of the blood from John’s swollen palms. Moving behind John, Paul used the same gentle patience as he washed his hair, taking his time to untangle each of the water-darkened strands. All the while, he could feel John trembling beneath his care. He reminded Paul of a wild, frightened animal, one that was just being touched for the first time.

Beyond tremors, John didn’t react, not even when Paul retrieved the shaving kit from the closet and shaved away his patchy week-old beard clump by clump. He barely even blinked when Paul helped him stand and wrapped him in a towel.

Once Paul was satisfied that most of the water had been wiped from John’s skin, he took a step back in appraisal. The truth was that John had never looked so small or helpless in all the time that Paul had known him. He just stood there in the middle of the bathroom, his hair plastered to his ashen face, looking so lost…

“John-love. Can you look at me? You’re scaring me here.”

John took a rattling breath and finally turned to Paul. “I wasn’t ready, y’know. I… I didn’t want to leave him. Not without saying goodbye.”

Paul reached and took John’s face in his hands. “Wasn’t ready for what, John? This is real. I’m here with you. What weren’t you ready for?”

“You look like him… you do. But I know him. He didn’t come and he’s better off without me. It’s okay. It has to be, you see. It’s the end.”

On silent feet, John walked away, his steps uneven and meandering as he went. Paul could only watch, feeling as if he were being slowly strangled, as John left the bathroom. Not knowing what else to do, Paul swept up the used towels and pulled the tub’s drain before following John out of the room.

_How could he convince John that this was real? That he hadn’t… that he wasn’t…_

Paul couldn’t stand to think about it. The thought was so disturbing and wrong, but… Paul felt his stomach turn and he pressed a hand to his mouth as the realization washed over him.

 _"Christ,"_ Paul muttered to himself. _John thinks that he’s dead._

.

_He’d felt every stroke, every wandering caress as Paul had dragged the soap across his skin, clearing away all of the dirt of yesterday. John had wanted so badly to relax and let go, to breathe deeply and allow the other man’s touches to carry him away. Usually, just Paul’s presence would’ve been enough to make him warm…_

_But John knew the truth. Paul wasn’t really touching him, wasn’t saying those sweet things. Paul wasn’t even really there._

_So John had stayed wound tight beneath the other man’s hands, praying that it would be over soon, hoping that he wouldn’t break down again in front of him. He knew that if he did, the petting and the gentleness would stop. This angel who wore Paul’s face would stop touching him, would cry and get upset. And it would be all John’s fault-_

_But Christ, hadn’t it felt good? To be touched without any expectations, without needing to call and ask? Without feeling guilty for wanting to be touched, for receiving attention without a transaction being made?_

_Under different circumstances, John knew that he wouldn’t have been able to hold still. His body would’ve celebrated around him, arching into the kind touches, would’ve begged for more and more and more…_

_But John had learned better. Mother had taught him that. Love must be earned. Love, like a child’s toy, can be taken away at any moment. It’s true, love is a light in dark. But she had reminded him again and again that every light has a switch, a switch that can be flipped on and off at will. A switch that is controlled through transactions and deeds done._

_She taught him that truth can be found when the light is off, when there is nothing there but John and the darkness of a white-painted room. She had taught him that the truth hurts. The truth, John had discovered, as he thought of Paul’s eyes late one night, was that beautiful things are loved. Not disgusting wastes of time and space. Certainly not John._

_As John sat down on the edge of the bed, the bed where he and the real Paul had shared so many beautiful moments with each other, he remembered the feeling of fingers running soap through his hair. The trail of them across his collarbones and shoulder blades. The softest of kisses being bestowed on the back of his neck. Truly, he hadn’t been worthy of any of it._

.

Paul turned on the radio, but kept the volume down low. He usually had something or another playing quietly as he slept, mostly because he couldn’t stand the silence at night. Once, the night’s had been populated by Ringo’s harsh snoring and George’s endless fidgeting. By John’s roaming fingers and ornery giggles… But not anymore. So, Paul had resorted to playing the radio when he slept.

After making his way from the kitchen into the bedroom, Paul sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the other man where he lay sleeping on the other side. John had curled up under the covers and was facing the wall, his knobby shoulder and fluffy hair being the only things that Paul could make out in the room’s dimness.

Paul tried not to think about how John usually slept, snuggled right up against him, invading Paul’s personal space while asleep, just as he had used to when they were awake. Shaking away the memory, Paul settled down on his own side, facing John so as to keep an eye on him throughout the night.

Earlier, Paul had come in to check on him to see if he could convince John to eat anything. Even if it was just a bit of broth, Paul would’ve been happy. It was clear that John was in serious need of food, and that he was likely dehydrated, too. But Paul had found John fast asleep, huddled beneath the thick comforter.

Sweeping a hand across the sleeping man’s face, Paul had detected a low-grade fever and briefly considered waking him up to give him medicine for it. But in the end, Paul had decided not to bother him. John needed rest just as much as he needed medicine, comfort and food.

Paul stripped down to his boxers and hurried under the covers. It wasn’t exactly cold in the cabin, but it had been snowing all day outside. Some of the chill had settled in Paul’s bones and made him shiver in the dark. He had to resist reaching out to pull John’s against him.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Paul placed a kiss on John’s bare shoulder before pulling the covers up and tucking them around the other man’s neck. “We’ll figure this out,” he whispered against the back of John’s head, forcing himself not to move any closer. “We _will_ figure this out, and you’ll be okay. _We_ will be okay. I promise you. You know why? Because we aren’t on our way home, John. We’re already there…

“I told you way back then, back in Miami. You _are_ my home. You are my Johnny and _you are my home._ And I hope you know that I am still your home too.” Paul, unable to stop himself any longer, kissed the back of John’s head and whispered into his hair. “I always will be. Because you see, I’m gonna be loving you forever, too.”

.

_John blinked silently in the dark, listening as Paul settled down. After a few moments, he allowed himself to drift off once more._


	12. Paul

“Paul… Paul…”

The familiar voice drug Paul back to wakefulness and he scrunched his nose. It took him a few seconds before everything came flooding back and Paul opened his eyes, greeted by the surrounding darkness. In the poor lighting, he could barely make out the walls of the cabin, swathed in shadow. _What time was it?_

“Paul… are you awake?”

Turning over, Paul was startled to find a warm body immediately beside him, not on the other side of the bed where it had been earlier. “John? I am now. Everything okay?”

Paul sat up a bit to turn on the bedside lamp, but John released a pitiful sound when he moved away. Moving back to where he’d been, Paul propped himself up on his elbow, made curious by John’s sudden reactivity. He could just barely make out the outline of the other man’s head, dark against the white pillow.

“You’re on the radio. In the kitchen.”

Listening carefully, Paul tamped down a yawn and tilted an ear to the door. After a few seconds of intense focus, he heard his own voice wafting in from the kitchen. Only snatches of the song could be heard, but he recognized it almost immediately.

_“-close your eyes and I’ll kiss you-”_

Paul looked back down at John’s figure, unable to see him clearly in the darkness. “I remember that one.” Paul hesitated. “I wrote it one for you, y’know. Back before Miami…”

They paused as the song went on, singing softly into the night-cloaked cabin.

_“And I’ll send all my loving to you.”_

John shifted to lay on his back. “It woke me up.”

“Is it too loud? I can-”

“No. No, I just…”

There was a pause and at first Paul had thought that John had fallen back to sleep. He jumped when John’s shadow-strewn body moved closer, moved up toward him.

A gasp left him when a pair of lips lightly grazed Paul’s cheek.

“I want… Paul… This isn’t a dream?”

_That_ got Paul’s attention. “No, it’s not a dream. This is real. I don’t know how to prove it to you, babe, but it is…”

Paul sighed as John’s warm breath whispered across his skin, moving to the shell of his ear and then down his neck. There was another pause before John pulled back, a waver in his voice. “This is real.”

“Yes, this is real,” Paul confirmed, resisting the urge to move closer to the other man. Something told him that this was a fragile moment. Something that he couldn’t afford to rush or mess up.

John laid back against the pillow, his voice colored by doubt. “But you have boxers on… in bed?”

“Uh, yes. I do. So?”

“You never wear anything to bed.”

John’s childlike proclamation made Paul laugh and his head spun a bit with the feeling. It felt so good to laugh. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

There was a considerate hum from John and he squirmed under the covers. Several seconds passed, or it might’ve even been a few minutes. At any rate, Paul stayed propped up, watching as John continued to twitch and shift around.

John shuddered beneath Paul and swallowed audibly. “Paul…”

“You alright, John-love?”

“I…please. Please, Paul?”

John’s voice was plaintive, the tone questioning and uncertain. Though Paul thought he might know what John wanted, he knew that he couldn’t move without being sure. The last thing that he wanted was to accidently set John back. “I need you to tell me what you want.”

“I need…” Paul could see the meager light reflecting in John’s eyes, flickering in and out rapidly whenever he blinked. “I need to know for sure. That this is real. I don’t know how…”

“I think I have an idea. Can I…?”

“Please.”

Very slowly, Paul leaned forward.

Paul didn’t so much kiss John as he caressed him, allowing his lips to brush from one corner of John’s mouth to the other. Infinitely aware of his hands, Paul used his left to hold himself up while his right cupped John’s face, and he allowed his fingertips to trace John’s jaw and cheek before finally threading them through John’s messy hair.

In that moment, as he cradled John’s head in his hand, Paul felt as if he held the entire universe.

John’s body jumped and twitched against Paul, hyperreactive to every touch and stroke. It was like electricity ran through his muscles, making him more skittish and high-strung than a half-broken colt. A sensual moan broke from his throat as he kissed Paul back, suddenly pressing their bodies flush together and struggling to get even closer. There was the desperation of a drowning man in John’s actions as he lifted his hands to clutch at Paul’s shoulders, his body shaking fiercely, a leaf caught in a storm.

Paul pulled back, his nose still brushing against John’s. “Shh, sweetheart. Calm down. You’re alright.”

“This- This is real?”

“Yes. This is real. This is real…”

Paul rested their foreheads together, trying to breath evenly despite the rush of emotions clouding his thoughts. Something wet touched Paul’s hand and he swept John’s tears away with his thumb, kissing at the ones that continued to escape. Christ. They’d done more crying in the last few hours than Paul wagered either of them had done in their entire lives. Oddly, it didn’t feel awkward at all. Instead, it was… freeing.

“What time is it then? What’s the day?”

Paul sat back and looked over his shoulder, searching out the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s digits winked at him from the darkness. “Its… 11:20pm. Today is December, 8, 1980. It’s about to be the 9th though, if the clock is right.”

John hummed quietly in the dark, his face still resting against Paul’s palm. “If this is real… if it is… I’m going to hate you in the morning.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You took me away… from her and… I’m going to say terrible things… things I don’t mean… I’m going to want to go back…”

“If you want to, then I won’t stop you-”

“But I’ll want you to.”

“You’ll want me to… stop you?”

John shuffled closer, pressing his cheek against Paul’s chest. His jaw clicked when he drew in a wide yawn, his voice muffled and sleepy. “This… I missed this so much… but I don’t deserve it… I haven’t earned it… I haven’t _earned_ it yet, but… I need to…I will…”

Paul stroked a hand down John’s back, trying to ignore the prominence of his ribs. “You don’t have to earn anything, baby. Especially this.”

John didn’t respond as he folded himself up, somehow making himself even smaller than he already was. Paul wrapped his arms around the other man, tucking John against his chest and under his chin. Within seconds, he felt John’s breathing even out and steady, his body easing back into sleep.

Paul lay awake for a long while after. It wasn’t until he heard the radio announce the beginning of December 9, 1980 that he finally drifted off too, John snugged securely in his arms.

~o0o~

Paul carefully placed the Rice Krispies pieces atop the ice cream, reminding himself once again that presentation was everything. He knew that it wasn’t the healthiest meal, but he also knew that John’s favorite treat would certainly go a ways in tempting him to eat.

Upon waking, Paul had herded John out of bed and had sat him down at the bar. As Paul put the finishing touches on John’s breakfast, John himself stared out the cabin’s front window. He was still quiet, but at least he had finally started to respond when Paul spoke to him. Even if the majority of his responses were nonverbal.

“Alright! Here we are.” Paul slid the bowl in front of John, rather pleased with himself. He’d watched John crush up the little rice treats in his vanilla ice cream for years, had watched John perfect the dessert to his exact liking before he would dig in. Producing a silver spoon, Paul pushed it into the bowl with a flourish. “Does it pass inspection then?”

John stared down at the bowl and nodded slowly. “Looks good. Thanks, Paul.”

Paul grinned and turned back to the fridge. Following his and John’s late night conversation the night before, Paul was admittedly more than a little giddy. They’d awoken entangled with each other, sharing the same air as they’d blinked awake at the same time. And though John hadn’t said anything, Paul had seen a certain clarity in the other man’s face, something that told him John was present. John was with him.

As John tentatively dipped the spoon into the top of the ice cream, Paul spoke again. “I’m going to give Linda a quick call, yeah? I’m sure she’s wanting to know how you are.”

John nodded without looking up, the spoon hovering halfway to his face.

Stepping back into the bedroom, Paul closed the door and made his way to the phone beside the bed.

Linda picked up on the first ring and began talking before Paul could even say ‘hello.’ “Paul! Have you seen the news?”

“No, I’ve just gotten up. Why?”

“One of Yoko and John’s staff spoke to the press!”

_Oh no._ “What!? Linda, how did-”

“Is it true?”

“Is- Is what true?”

“That John was being- that Yoko-” Linda paused, collecting herself before she went on. “They said that she’s been isolating him. Not letting him take phone calls from friends and family. They said that he’s sick and… well, is it all true?”

Paul nodded before he remembered that she couldn’t see him. “That much sounds true enough. What else was said? Which staffer?”

“The staffer is an anonymous woman. The reporter said that John had been hurt, too, that someone saw blood on the wall of his bedroom… Paul, what happened to him?”

As quickly as he could, Paul tried to relay to Linda what he’d found at the Dakota, from his walking in through the front entrance to carrying John out the back door. At the end of his recollection, Linda released a heavy sigh. “They did say that you’d been there…”

“I’m not surprised. What did they say happened? Did they mention that I kicked the door in?”

“You might be surprised, but… you’re a bit of a hero. The staffer said that you had refused to leave until you saw John. She also said that the rest of the staff had been unaware of John’s… state. Yoko hasn’t said anything to the media yet, as far anyone knows, but the staffers, at least, are glad that you showed up.”

Paul felt his body slump a bit where he sat on the edge of the bed. It was always a pleasant surprise when the media ended up being on his side. “Well, he might be out of the Dakota, but he’s still a bit rough. I can’t get him to eat yet, and sometimes he…he has these strange spells, Lin. Like he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not sometimes, y’know? We talked last night and he seemed better than he’d been. But now he won’t even look at me.”

“It’s going to take some time. There’s no telling what he’s been through, Paul. We all remember the breakup and what it did to everyone. It sounds like things haven’t gotten any easier for him since then…”

“Certainly not. He’s barely just started to talk at all and I don’t want to stress him out too much by asking what happened… I’ve never seen him so fragile, Lin. So unresponsive and quiet and dependent. He’s almost… _childlike_. I fixed up his old favorite this morning, the Rice Krispies and ice cream, y’know. He’s out at the counter eating it now. Or, at least I hope he’s eating it… I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t get him to eat…”

“You should probably go check on him then. The more he sees you, the more real all this will become, I think. So I’ll let you go… Oh, and Paul? You should probably know… I know you didn’t want anyone else to know about the cabin, but I got a call from-”

A loud crash sounded from beyond the bedroom door, making Paul jerk upright from his slumped position on the edge of the bed. Over the phone line, Linda paused. “Paul? Paul, what was that?”

Another crash had Paul jumping to his feet. “I’m sorry, Lin, I have to go-”

“Go, Paul, just call me later. Go!”

Paul slammed the phone back down onto the receiver and threw himself off of the bed, bound for the bedroom door.


	13. Paul

By the monstrous crashes emanating from the front part of the cabin, Paul half-expected to see Ono herself kicking in the front windows, demanding that Paul return her husband to the Dakota immediately. What he didn’t expect to see was John, clothed in only his boxers, flinging plates out of the cupboards, his face twisted with rage as they shattered against the walls and the floor.

Stunned, Paul could only stare as John opened another cabinet door and swept it’s collection of coffee mugs from the shelves. It wasn’t until one such mug crashed at Paul’s feet, making him jump, that he realized John was shouting, his voice nearly buried under the sound of shattering porcelain.

“ENOUGH! I CAN’T BE ENOUGH! I CAN’T- I TRIED-”

John flung an entire stack of bowls onto the floor, his hair sticking to his reddened, sweaty face. It was as if a demon had overtaken him, his teeth bared as he screamed and ranted. “YOU WANNA KNOW THE TRUTH, JOHNNY? YOU WANNA KNOW THE _TRUTH?”_ Another stack of saucers hit the floor, breaking into a thousand sharp pieces. “YOU’RE NOTHING! NOTHING! CAN’T KEEP YOKO, CAN’T KEEP CYN, CAN’T KEEP- CAN’T KEEP- _CAN’T_ -”

John suddenly slumped against the bar, his eyes wide as he stared down at the mess around his bare feet. “It will never be enough,” he whispered. “ _I_ will never be enough. That’s the truth. _That’s my truth_ …”

Finally breaking from his trance, Paul darted forward, paying no mind to the broken china under his slippers as he caught John mid-stumble. Pulling the other man to his chest, Paul could still hear him muttering. “I can’t do this- I can’t do this anymore-”

“You can’t do what? Just calm down-”

“I was so close- _I was so close_ -”

“John, listen, please-”

“AND YOU LEFT ME!”

John flung himself away from Paul, his lower back colliding with the edge of the bar. He didn’t seem to notice though as he continued to snarl viciously, spit flinging from his mouth. “ _YOU LEFT ME!_ You threw it all away! YOU THREW _ME_ AWAY! And for what? Because I asked for more in India? Because I wanted the world to know? Because I wanted them to see how much I loved you?”

A broken laugh burst from John, his eyes black and manic. “You were embarrassed of me, weren’t you, Paulie? ‘Fat Beatle John Loves Cute Beatle Paul’, eh? I can see the headlines now! It would’ve been huge! It would’ve been bigger than- well, _bigger than Jesus!”_

Turning, John snatched up the toaster and tossed it to the floor, an animalistic scream of frustration leaving him. “I TRIED SO HARD! AND SHE WAS MAKING ME BETTER! She loved me, I was being good- I was so _good_ , and now- now-”

John stopped cold, his face suddenly blank as he stared into space. “Now- now I’ll have to start over- I’ll have to- have to try and- and- will she forgive me?”

He looked at Paul then, a terrible, soul-deep fear plain on his suddenly colorless face. “I thought I- I just wanted- I wanted- I wanted it _so bad_ , and I- oh, no- oh, _fuck_ -”

John doubled over and dry heaved, one hand clamped over his middle and the other onto the kitchen counter. But there was nothing for him to purge as his body strained over and over, not leaving him with a spare moment to catch his breath. Paul moved forward again and placed a steadying hand on John’s back, caught between wanting to give John his space and wanting to comfort him through the spasms.

When John began to fall forward, Paul threw caution to the wind and pulled John against himself once more. “You think I didn’t regret how things happened? If you’d just waited, John, if you’d waited just a little longer-”

“How long, Paul? I’d already waited- Christ, I’d waited _years_ -” John gasped and coughed, his fingers hooking against Paul’s chest. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t wait- not anymore-”

Paul petted at the other man’s hair, making sure to keep John’s bare feet clear of the mess on the floor. “I love you, John. I loved you back then, and I love you right now. I never stopped-”

“But it wasn’t enough for you, was it, Paul?” John looked up at him, his sour breath hot against Paul’s face. “You needed things to _look_ good, needed things to be _clean_ and _in line_. You were always the PR man, weren’t you, worrying about how things looked? Even when you turned me away, you did it nice and quiet, made sure that no one would be around to see-”

“John, that’s not what-”

“You can’t- You can’t fucking _coddle_ me to sate your guilt. To feed your sense of heroism, or whatever it is that helps you sleep at night. You haven’t saved me, Paul. You fucking _bastard_ , you.”

As John had been speaking, the fire had gradually faded from his eyes, his body slumping more fully against Paul’s. He continued, most of his meager weight resting against Paul’s chest. “I wanted to die, did you know that? When you left me in the rain, I wanted to die, wanted to walk into the forest and never come out. I- I didn’t want to exist...

"But how could you have known? You’d been so worried about how things _looked_ and now I have to figure out how to get Yoko to take me back. You were always so- so worried about how it looked. But never- never how it _felt_.”

“You- you don’t really want to go back, John. You don’t. I know you don’t.”

“You don’t know me at all, McCartney. And don’t you dare tell me what I do and don’t want. You’ve done enough of that, don’t you think? Taking me out of my home, playing house here in this rundown _shite hole_ -”

Anger, sudden, potent and white-hot, washed over Paul, spilling from his mouth before he could stop it. “Was that what you and Yoko were doing, John? Playing house? With you on the floor, covered in blood, shivering and muttering like some kind of lunatic? And her pretending you don’t exist, keeping you like some kind of exotic _pet_ that she can visit at her leisure? If it weren’t for me you’d still be up there-"

“Paul-”

“ -and for what? Waiting for her to see you, to give you a spare minute or two if she decides that you’ve earned it? She doesn’t love you, John, don’t you get that? She's been _controlling_ _you_... What happened to you? And all of this nonsense with not eating and throwing tantrums in the kitchen? It’s bloody _childlike!”_

Paul pushed John back against the bar, several years’ worth of fury loosing unchecked from his lips. “Nothing has changed with you has it? You’re still just a little boy looking for approval, looking for love, but never taking it when it’s given to you! I loved you, John, but what we had was never _enough_ , was it? You always needed some kind of reassurance, some kind of grand proclamation…”

John blinked up at him, unmoving, the shock plain on his horrified face as Paul’s words finally caught up with him. Immediately, Paul stepped back, regret washing away his anger in an instant. “I… John, I…”

“This- this isn’t-”

“John- John, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not. This can’t be…” A familiar blankness came over John’s bloodless face as he gazed up at Paul. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t- I didn’t mean-”

John dodged out from under Paul’s hands, so quickly that Paul had no time to react. A moment later, he was scrambling across the broken dishware, headed for the bathroom. Paul knew that if John managed to lock the door, he wouldn’t see him again any time soon. And John was in no state to be left alone.

Moving quickly, Paul managed to catch up and block John from the bathroom door, catching him as he tripped on the shards scattered across the room. Stumbling under John’s weight, Paul fell back against the wall beside the bathroom door, barely managing to keep them both from falling to the hardwood floor.

Panting, Paul felt John squirming weakly, trying to get out of his hold, but the other man was too weak to put up any kind of real fight. That, and he didn’t seem to be as present as he’d been earlier that morning. As such, John’s struggling only lasted for a few seconds before he finally fell limp, his eyes wide and unfocused on something over Paul’s shoulder.

“John, listen to me-”

“No… no…”

“John, please don’t do this, love. Please don’t leave me like you did-” A quickly swipe of his free hand across John’s face told Paul that his fever had gotten worse, was practically radiating off of his dry, ashen skin. “Christ, Johnny-”

A knock sounded at the door, making Paul jump. Looking down at John, who only wore boxers, and then at himself, ruffled and still in his robe. Paul called out to the door. “It’ll be a minute!”

_Who could be here?_

Carefully, Paul swept John up into his arms, half-expecting him to start fighting again. Instead, his worries were heightened when John simply nestled against him, closing his eyes and crossing his wrists over his own chest.

Paul sighed as he carried John to the bedroom and lay him down, doing his best not to panic at John’s rapidly worsening condition. Tucking the covers up around John’s face, Paul muttered gentle reassurances to the unresponsive man. “John, I didn't... I’m so sorry, baby. None of that came out right, and I’m... Christ, I'm so sorry. Listen, there’s someone at the door right now, so I’m going to see who it is. I’ll be right back though, alright?”

John didn’t react as Paul regained his feet and exited the room, closing the door behind himself with a sigh. There was no telling how much his own little outburst had set John back. It was becoming increasingly clear to Paul that he was in way over his head.

Another insistent knock sounded from the door, coupled with the door knob itself being jostled. A loud exclamation came from the other side, soon followed by a second voice, one that was pitched low and soothing.

The voices made Paul stop in his tracks, his hand hovering over the door’s deadbolt. _It couldn’t be…_

Knowing that he had no other choice, Paul flipped the deadbolt and opened the door.

Two faces, both as familiar to Paul as his own, greeted him, one twisted in obvious anger and the other pinched and pale with worry. Paul couldn’t help but stutter as he stared at them, an odd mixture of relief and trepidation roiling in his gut. “How- How did you-”

George advanced on him immediately, Ringo staying off to the side and out of the way. Paul forced himself not to flinch back as the other man’s face stopped only inches away from his own.

_“What in the bloody Hell, Paul.”_


	14. Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer of a chapter so it took a bit longer to post. I'm gonna be slowing down posting a bit because I'm adding more characters in and I want to get them as accurate as I can :)

“You didn’t even think to call us? To let us know what you were doing? To let us know what was going on?”

Paul struggled to gather his thoughts as the George’s enraged voice blistered his ears, stepping quickly aside as George shoved his way past and into the cabin. In his wake strode Ringo, the little drummer muttering a half-hearted greeting as Paul closed the door behind them, still stunned into silence. _How had they found the cabin?_

George whirled on him, a finger stabbing at Paul’s chest. “Look I get it, yeah? You and John have your own little world. That hasn’t changed a bit, I see. But how do you think we felt when we saw it on _TV_ and _Linda_ had to tell us what was going on?”

As George began to rapidly pace the room, Paul finally got his voice to work. “How did you know where we were?”

“We called Linda.” Ringo toed off his snow-caked boots by the door and gave Paul a pointed look. “But _you_ should’ve called _us_ , mate. Pretty cold for you not to. Even for you-”

“I was going to, yeah? But things haven’t been exactly manageable here-”

“I'd say so. What _is_ all this?”

Paul and Ringo turned to find George standing in the kitchen, his wet boots crushing the broken plates and bowls and mugs into even finer pieces. Bending, George picked up a piece and held it up for inspection. Even from where Paul stood by the door, he could still make out a smear of blood across one of the jagged edges…

_John ran across the mess to get to the bathroom… to get away from **me** …_

_“Christ.”_

Forgetting everything else, Paul made for the bedroom door.

The other two followed him as he pushed it open and quickly made his way to the bed, flipping on the bedside lamp as he sat down. As expected, John hadn’t moved and was still staring up at the ceiling, that upsetting empty quality still masking his face. Paying the others no mind, Paul slowly pulled back the covers.

When he got to John’s feet, Paul loosed a curse. Though not nearly as badly cut up as his hands had been, John’s right foot was bleeding, leaving smears of red across the white sheets. John still didn’t react as Paul pulled his leg into his lap and examined the cut, poking at it to try and gage the injury’s depth.

“Dear God…”

George and Ringo crept further into the room. Their mouths hanging open at the sight of their ill bandmate. While Ringo stopped by the bedside table, George sat on the edge of the bed beside Paul. He slowly took in John’s emaciated frame, his mouth working. “What…What happened to him?”

Deciding not to try and answer, Paul spoke to Ringo. “Ritchie, um… can you? There’s a First Aid kit in the bathroom closet- um-”

With a swift nod, the drummer wordlessly departed on his errand.

“What’s wrong with him?” George reached and took one of John’s limp hands into his own, grimacing when he detected the clamminess of the other man’s fingers. “Is he sick?”

“A mix of things, I think. Remember how he was after the whole ‘Fat Beatle’ thing? Drank coffee and tea all the time?” Paul waited for George to nod. “I don’t think he ever stopped with all that. I can’t get him to eat… even made him his favorite this morning.”

“Rice Krispies and ice cream?”

“That’s the one.”

George continued to rub John’s hand between his own. “What else? Has he said anything?”

“He’s worried about Yoko. Getting her back, y’know.”

“Yoko?”

Paul grabbed a corner of the ruined bedsheet and pushed it against the sole of John’s bleeding foot. “Yeah. He says that she was making him better…”

“‘Better’? Does _Yoko_ consider _this_ better? He won’t eat, he can’t stand up, he’s as good as _unconscious_ \- who in their right mind would consider this _better_?”

Perhaps disturbed by George’s angry tone, John turned his head on the pillow. “Geo?”

Leaning forward, George positioned himself so that John could see him. “Hey, John. Seen better days, haven’t ye?”

“Where’s… Paul?”

Before Paul could respond, George held up a hand. “He’s just stepped out for a minute. Do you want him to come back?”

“No…” John’s brow furrowed as he rolled his head away. “He hates me.”

Again, Paul tried to speak, but clamped his mouth shut when George gave him a look. Ringo reappeared in the doorway and paused, looking on silently as George stroked a hand through John’s hair. “Aw, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. Why d’you think that?”

“He left.”

“What are you on about, John?”

John’s breath hitched a bit. “No one loves me. No one. Everyone _leaves_. And I… I can’t make them _stay_. Even when I try to… to…”

“John? Try to what?”

“I’m sorry, Geo. For all of it. All of it…”

“Let’s not be worrying about that right now, eh? Time to talk later… Hey there. John? Johnny?”

But John had fallen asleep under George’s gentle petting, his breathe whistling softly through his parted lips. Ringo finally came forward and delivered the First Aid kit to Paul. “Don’t need to worry about bandaging it too much,” the drummer whispered. “There’s a doctor on the way. Should be here by noon.”

Paul looked up at George. “There’s… can you trust him? Not to talk to the press? How did you find him?” Paul’s stomach churned. “How does he know about this place? We can’t-”

“May.”

“May… what?”

Sharing a glance with Ringo, George sighed. He nodded to the First Aid kit in Paul’s lap. “Let’s get this taken care of. Then we can talk.”

~o0o~

After wrapping John’s wounded foot and making sure that he was as comfortable as he could be, the three men retreated out into the cabin’s living room. They made sure to leave the bedroom door cracked should John need them.

“So,” Paul began, twisting his fingers together. “How did you know where to come to? How did you know about this place?”

“Linda told us.” George warmed his hands around his mug, the steam rising briskly from his freshly brewed tea. “A friend of mine called me and asked if I’d heard. That was… Christ, was it really just yesterday then? Anyway, he called me and I turned on the TV…”

Ringo stirred a bit of sugar into his own tea, resting his elbows against the kitchen bar. “I was in the Bahamas. Same thing mostly. One of the step kids in L.A. called me. Then I called Geo. He’d already called Linda and was due to fly out within the hour.”

“So Rings got a flight into New York too. Lin told us that the cabin existed, but she didn’t know where it was. Only had the phone number for it, but I wasn’t about to call you and ask…”

Paul ignored George’s jab and instead looked between them. “So how did you find it then?”

“May called Linda. Said she would meet us at the airport.”

“Wait, wait, _wait_. May knows about this place?” A spike of betrayal arched through Paul. He and John had promised each other to never tell anyone about the cabin. Sure, things might’ve gotten rough between them, but the cabin… it was their safe haven. It was supposed to be their quiet place, their refuge from it all…

“She said that John told her. So someone would know where you’d go…”

Ringo cast his eyes down, avoiding Paul’s searching gaze. “Where I’d go… if what, Ritchie?”

George cleared his throat and rocked up onto his feet. Silently, he made his way to the front window and gazed out, watching the gentle fall of the snow outside. “She said you’d come here if John died. If something ever happened to John… he told May that you would come here. He told May where you’d go so that she could tell Linda. That way, Linda would be able to find you. She would be able to help you.”

Paul slumped back in his chair, his anger evaporating instantly. Of _course_ John would know him so well. From the moment he’d heard that John was in trouble, Paul had been thinking of the cabin, of the cozy interior and the memories they’d made, all of it hidden away amid the thick surrounding forest. Of course John would’ve known where Paul would seek shelter if something ever happened to him.

Chewing savagely at the callous on his right index finger, Paul paused just long enough to stutter out his next question. “Did- did May meet you then? She knows what’s happened?”

“I reckon just about everyone knows what’s happened by now. Anyway-” George actually smiled as he moved from the window and refilled his mug, dropping in a fresh teabag. “One of Yoko’s staffers discreetly contacted May and gave her some of John’s stuff. Just some clothes, a few vinyls. Oh, that reminds me-”

George darted to the door and slipped on his boots, bundling outside before Paul could so much as blink. At the bar, Ringo snorted a laugh at Paul’s surprised expression. “May gave us everything that she’d gotten when she met us at the airport. It’s out in the car. What with everything going on, we forgot to bring in the fragile bits, see…”

A few seconds later, George opened the door again, a genuine smile on his face. Paul’s eyes were drawn down to the familiar shape clutched in George’s left hand.

_John’s Rick._

It glittered under the cabin’s dim lights, casting a glow over the entire room as George propped it up on its own couch cushion. Really, its presence felt like having a fourth person in the room. Paul swallowed. With it sitting there, shining and silently singing, it almost completed their little inner circle. Almost.

“How did she… how? She couldn’t get inside the building-”

“May says there’s a crafty little redheaded staffer working there at the Dakota. Said she slipped it out inside a pile of ruined bedsheets! May had to get it out from behind the dumpster late last night. She met us at the airport and handed it and everything else over around 4am this morning. Bless that woman…”

Paul shook his head in disbelief marveling at how much everything had changed in the past two days. Though tensions were high, all four of them were under the same roof again. No one was quite threatening murder (yet), and John had kissed him the night before. If the situation had only been less dire for John, Paul might’ve tricked himself into thinking that everything was okay.

“Paul?”

“Yeah, Ritch?”

The drummer hesitated and Paul had to look away from his sad betrayed expression. “Were you ever going to tell us, Paul? Or just let us find out later?”

“Rings, I thought that-”

“No, Paul. You didn’t _think_.” Paul flinched as George interrupted him, his cool gaze fixed on the bassist. “You didn’t even tell us that you were worried about John. Didn’t tell us that he was sick or hurt. We had to learn it all from Linda and _the news_ … like you two were nothing to us- like _we_ were nothing to _you_ -”

Ringo stepped closer to George and rested a hand on his shaking shoulder, leaning in to whisper quietly in his ear. Slowly, the tension in George’s shoulders began to fade away, but his gaze remained fixed on Paul, hard as marble.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. Miscommunication had killed the band in the first place. And now here they were, failing at it again… no. This one was purely Paul’s fault. Why hadn’t he just called them?

“When are you gonna understand, Paul?”

“Look, Geo, I-”

“No _you_ look, Paul.” George advanced on him, his hands clenched at his sides. Paul braced himself, setting his jaw, preparing for the blow.

Instead, a pair of long arms wrapped around him, tugging him in for a fierce hug. Holding his breath, Paul tried to listen as George spoke against the side of his head. “ _We are a family_. We love each other. Even if it is a bit deeper for you and Johnny, Rings and I love him too. _You should’ve called us_ -”

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

George released him and stepped back, his hands falling to Paul’s shoulders. When he didn’t say anything, Paul continued in a rush, tripping over himself as his eyes began to sting. “We haven’t all been on the best of terms now, have we? I honestly wasn’t sure if you’d care, Geo. I didn’t know what-”

“Are you serious, Paul? Do you really think that?”

George’s voice was suddenly calm and Paul ducked his head. He’d never been one to easily cow; John was usually the only one that he deferred to. Publicly, anyway. But Paul found himself folding his arms and avoiding the other man’s eyes, closing himself off from the other man.

They _had_ been his family, hadn’t they? But John wasn’t the only one who’d suffered after the divorce. Had they so easily forgotten the situation with Klein, the heavy drinking that Paul had done, the physical illness that it had all caused him? Did they forget the darkness that had tried to consume Paul every day; the darkness that would’ve won without Linda’s help?

“Look at me, Paul. Come now. Look at me, aye?”

With a halting swallow, Paul met George’s eyes. Though they were still hard as flint, some of the familiar understanding was back in them. “I’m not forgetting everything that’s happened. Not you and John crowding us out, or the lawsuits, or any of it. There’s a lot there, Paul, and I don’t know if we can get past it. We’ve all cut each other pretty deep.” George gave Paul’s shoulders a squeeze, his tone low but steady. “All that to say, none of what happened is going away, but right now- right now, there’s more important things to worry about.”

Paul struggled to steady himself, trying to ground himself in George’s dark eyes. “After the break up and everything… I didn’t think- I wasn’t _sure_ anymore, Geo. Wasn’t sure of _anything_ anymore.”

George gave him a tight but genuine smile and pulled Paul back into his arms. This time, Paul hugged him back, clutching at George’s slight frame as he buried his face against his neck. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite tame the hiccups that rattled in his own throat.

After a few moments, George muttered a soft curse, his own voice raspy with emotion. “You’re a damned fool, Macca, you know that? We fight like family, don’t we? That means we take care of each other too. You silly, stubborn git. _Like family_. So stop trying to do everything yourself for once, yeah? Hare Krishna.”

A weight settled against Paul’s back as Ringo joined the hug, firmly placing the shuddering bassist between them. Sandwiched between his two former bandmates, Paul could physically feel himself calming down, his heart slowing and the tension in his back falling away. A wave of exhaustion fell over him and Paul found himself slumping a bit in their hold. “I’m sorry,” whispered, grabbing and squeezing Ringo’s wrist where it rested against George’s ribs. “We still have to talk, I know, but… I want you to know. Both of you. I didn’t mean any of it. I didn’t mean-”

“I know, Paul. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.” George planted a kiss in Paul’s hair and reached to grip Ringo’s arm. “We know, don’t we Ritchie?”

Ringo nuzzled against the back of Paul’s robe, his grip around the other two tightening. “I love you, Paulie. And I love you, George. I love, Johnny, too, despite everything. You’re the little brothers I never had, y’know? And you always will be.”

It was several more minutes before George pulled back and so did Ringo, leaving Paul to stand calm and warm and touch-sated between them. Scrunching his nose, the bassist quickly dashed the tears from his eyes, but he needn’t have worried. The other two had been just as moved.

Ringo snorted a hoarse laugh, quickly retreating to the kitchen. “Look at us! Worse than a bunch of birds, we are. Can you imagine what they’d say back home if they saw us? Holding each other and crying in the living room?”

Paul couldn’t help but be reminded of John as he thought of their shared hug, the way he’d felt so at ease as the other two had buoyed him up. “I can’t say that I’d care if they saw us. It… it felt good, y’know? And that’s what matters in the end, innit?”

George paused in his search through the supply closet, likely on the hunt for a dustpan and broom. The mess of broken dishes on the floor wasn’t going to clean itself up, after all. “I reckon that’s about right. Sounds like something John would say.”

“Aye, it does… It does…”

Nodding along, Ringo got out of George’s way and headed toward the bedroom to check on John. “Oh, before I forget. May said that she was making some arrangements with a few of John’s friends. From when they were out in L.A. She wants you to call her as soon as you can. If you still know how a phone works, that is…”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh, swiping a hand across his watering eyes. “Oh, piss off, would you? I get it. I’ll give her a ring before the doctor gets here. Besides, I wanna know more about him before he gets anywhere near John.”


	15. Paul

Flicking the telephone cord between his fingertips, Paul waited as the phone rang. Fortunately, it only made it to two rings before Paul heard a click and familiar voice came over the line. “Hello, this is May.”

“May, hello, it’s Paul-”

“How is he?”

“I… I don’t know.” Paul sucked in a breath and continued furiously mangling the phone cord. “He’s a mess, May. We’re still waiting for the doctor.”

Paul leaned back to peek through the bedroom door, catching a glimpse of Ringo hovering over the bed. Even from where Paul stood outside, he could see that John’s breathing was shallow, barely detectable beneath the white sheets.

“He’s going to be fine,” May insisted, even as her voice trembled. “He has to be. Is it really as bad as the news says though? You had to carry him?”

Paul felt his stomach drop. “How do you know that I carried him? Is that on the news?”

“More staffers from the Dakota came forward. They interviewed them this morning on TV, over the phone-”

Cursing himself for not installing a TV in the cabin, Paul twisted the phone cord even more tightly around his finger. “How many staffers? What are they saying exactly?”

May paused for a moment and Paul could hear her TV running in the background, the reporter’s words indecipherable through the phone. “After the first anonymous staffer, two more started talking. They’re saying that John hadn’t left his apartment in a long time, but I already knew that much. I hadn’t heard from him in a month, and I knew that she was filtering phone calls in and out of his apartment… but they’re saying that you had to carry him out? Is he hurt somehow? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know exactly. He’s not present, y’know? He’s not quite out of his head, but… May, he thought he was dead when I found him. Didn’t think that I was real, or that I was actually there with him. Even right now, he’s just staring off into space, not talking or looking at anyone… There’s no telling what’s going on in his head. It’s not drugs… it’s deeper than that. Does that make sense? It doesn’t look like he’s been eating regularly either.”

There was a moment of silence before May spoke, her voice more confident than Paul expected it to be. “But he’s going to be okay now. You’re there with him, Paul. That’s all he really needs. Is for you to be there.”

Paul turned from the bedroom door and sat himself down at the bar. “I don’t know about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“He and I, we- we had a little spat, see. He misunderstood me, but I wasn’t… well. I said things that I shouldn’t have. I said them loudly, and… I don’t know how to explain it, but he seemed to withdraw, you know? Not physically, he’s right here, but… he’s out of it. Just staring into space…”

“But you’re there now, so you can fix things with him. Even if you’re fighting, at least you’re together, right? He needs you, Paul. He does.” On the other end of the line, Paul could hear May turning off the TV. “Did George and Ringo get there okay? Did they give you his stuff?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t gone through any of it yet. Crafty you are, having the staffer put the Rick behind a dumpster…”

“I couldn’t think of anywhere else to hide it! The place was crawling with reporters and fans… it’s a madhouse outside the Dakota right now. Everyone wants to know what happened… Anyway, I sent a pair of his glasses too. I bet you’ve got a set for him though already, don’t you?”

Paul smiled. May really was an angel, she was. It was no wonder that John loved her. “I do, but it’s his Buddy Holly’s. Doubt they’re his prescription anymore…”

May giggled, a pleasant, soothing sound. “Probably not. But yeah, I sent a pair and some of his other stuff. The vinyls are important to him, I know. Did you see them?”

“No, who are they?”

“I’ll give you a chance to look through them. They’re the ones he listens to the most. The ones he loves.”

“Keeping me in suspense, are you?”

“For now, yes. Speaking of suspense… you should really call Cynthia and Mimi. They’re worried sick, you know. Cyn called me this morning… Julian saw the news and he’s been threatening to come to New York all morning.”

Paul dragged a hand through his hair and groaned. Christ, he’d forgotten about them. He’d been so focused on John… “I hate to ask, May, but-”

“I’ll call them the second I hang up here. What do you want me to say?”

“Just tell them that he’s- tell them that-”

What _was_ there to tell? John was sick, both in mind and body, and there wasn’t an answer for any of it yet? He couldn’t tell them about John’s crumbling mental state, or the way his body looked more like a battered scarecrow than the John that they knew. He couldn’t tell them that John had opened the window… had thought that he’d died…

Panic seized Paul, gripping his in icy claws. What _was_ he supposed to tell them?

“Christ, May- I don’t know what to tell them,” he whispered honestly, releasing the phone chord and letting his head fall into his hand. “Just… let them know that Geo and Ringo are here. And tell them not to come. I’m going to try and get John home to Scotland, but with how he is right now, I don’t know when we can move him.”

“I can do that, sure. Also, I might have a few ideas when it comes to getting him to Scotland…”

“Oh? How is that?”

“Let’s just say that a few of his friends have offered to help. The whole break-into-the-Dakota-and-steal-John-back has really shaken some of them up. They’re wondering why they didn’t do it themselves ages ago.”

“Oh, now, I wouldn’t say that that’s what happened-”

“Harry called it that. Not me. You remember Harry Nilsson, right?” May huffed an audible laugh as Paul sputtered briefly on his end. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t said anything like that to the media… yet. He called this morning after Cynthia did. You really should consider giving out the cabin’s number to some of them, Paul. They don’t know who to call rather than me and I don’t know what to tell them.”

“I’d give out the cabin’s number, but I’m trying to keep it quiet here for him, y’know? I can’t have it ringing off the hook at all hours with their questions… Just- Just tell them that he’s safe and that he’s with me. And Geo and Ringo. But make it clear that they can’t tell anyone. I don’t want the media to hear and start planning some Beatle reunion because of this. We’re just helping an old friend.”

“That wouldn’t be so terrible though, would it? A bit of a reunion of sorts? Not now of course, but in the future. You never know…”

“I don’t think he’s going to want that, May.”

Paul heard the woman sigh and he was reminded momentarily of Mimi, ever patient, but always at her wit’s end when it came to Paul. “He wants to work with you again, you know he does. He’s wanted to get back with you for years, he told you that during… when we were all out in L.A. He hasn’t stopped wanting that.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be making any music, not for a little bit at least. He’s pretty rough right now, May. And I can’t get him to eat…” There was a rustle over the line, followed by a quiet hiccup. The sound took Paul by surprise. “May? May, are you alright?”

“… There’s nothing that he needs more right now than you other three. Especially you, Paul. I just wish you could see that.”

Paul collected himself, fixing his gaze on a point in the middle distance. “Why don’t you come out to the cabin? Seeing you would help him, I know-”

“John loves a lot of people, Paul. He loves me. He loves Cyn, even if he insists that he doesn’t. He loves Mimi and George and Ringo. Little Julian. He _loves_.” She paused, sniffing wetly. “But no one compares to you. No one comes close.”

Paul felt his chest tighten at her words. “He wants to go back to her. He said he did-”

“You aren’t allowed to do that, Paul. I swear- _God_. Please don’t do that to him again. Just… please don’t.”

“Don’t do…what?”

“You can’t just send him back like last time. All he needs is a choice! A choice without someone else whispering in his ear. A choice without you or Yoko trying to influence him. Paul, I know who he’ll pick without anyone trying to convince him, if it’s just him and his own head, his own heart… he won’t pick her.”

“May, you know I can’t-”

“Next time he might not call, Paul. And then how will you feel? Knowing you didn’t try? You’re the one he called when he needed help. Not Yoko, not me. Not Cynthia or Mimi. You might be fighting right now and you might have a lot of talking to do before things are right again. But when he thought it was time to say goodbye… when he thought he wasn’t going to make it to the next bit… he called you. He called you because _he loves you_. John thinks that he needs her, thinks that she makes him better. But love is what makes us better. And _he loves you_.”

“I don’t know if… I don’t know if I can be enough this time, May. The way things ended between us-”

“It isn’t about being enough, Paul. It’s about loving John. And telling him he doesn’t need to earn it. Not ever. That’s all he needs.”

Clearing his throat, Paul refocused on watching George flit around the room, adjusting everything and anything within his reach. “Geo, um- Geo said that you sent a doctor this way?”

Thankfully, May picked up on his abrupt subject change. “Yes, Dr. Anderson. Joel Anderson, from New York. He’s older and not very…”

“Shakable?”

“Exactly! He’ll treat John like anyone else. He’s trustworthy… David suggested him, actually.”

“… David?” Silence fell over the phone line and realization hit Paul like a truck. “David _Bowie?_ May-”

“He wanted to help! So I asked him if he knew a doctor that we could trust not to talk to the media. I didn’t tell him where you are or anything. Just that John needs a doctor. He knows that John is with you.”

An unfamiliar feeling of jealousy still roiled deep in Paul’s gut as he considered May’s words. He didn’t have anything real against David… but there had been rumors about a dalliance between him and John. Supposedly, it had taken place during what had come to be christened “John’s Lost Weekend” and had ended promptly when John had returned to Yoko in New York City.

Paul shook himself, feeling the blush crawling up his neck. _Christ_. Now was _not_ the time to be thinking about David and John’s _possible_ fling. Besides, Paul wasn’t the jealous-type, at least not usually. That had always been John’s job.

“You didn’t tell him anything else?”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“And have you met this doctor then?”

“Yes, this morning before he left. David called when the news broke about John leaving the Dakota yesterday and I had just finished up with Mary, the staffer there. She told me that John might need a doctor, so that’s what I told David. He referred me to Dr. Anderson and I met with him.

“He’s seen the news… and I told him some things that Mary told me. So he should be bringing everything he’ll need. What John will need, I mean.”

“May, are you sure-”

“Yes, Paul. I am _sure_.” May laughed again, softly. “You know, when I said that David knew John was with you… I meant more than where John physically is, right in this moment. You know that right? I meant that David knows he’s _with you._ ” Caught out, Paul twirled the phone cord around his fingers until they began to turn blue. “Yes. I… yes, May. Of course. I… I didn’t mean-”

“God. You’re just like him, you know? John says it’s a ‘northern thing,’ you both with your… what did Cynthia call it? Oh! ‘Emotional constipation’…. Anyway, Dr. Anderson should be there within the hour now. Can you keep me updated Paul? Remember- John’s got friends out here. We aren’t you three, no, but we do love him.”

“I- sure, May. Sure. I’ll call you.”

“And Paul?”

“Hm? Yeah?”

“He’ll pick you every time. Every time. He just needs a chance.”

Paul hung up quickly, slamming the phone on the receiver hard enough to make George jump on the couch. “Christ, Paul! What was that?”

“It’s nothing… May said the doctor will be here soon.” Hurrying out from under George’s considering eye, Paul ducked around the corner and into the bedroom.

Ringo still sat on the edge of the bed, studiously wiping a damp cloth across John’s face. John seemed to be half-made of shadows, his closed eyes terribly sunken and his cheeks hollow with dehydration. He’d even stopped sweating, though the fever still burnt hot on his skin. Moving silently closer, Paul registered that Ringo was talking as he swept the cloth across the other man’s neck.

“Remember that, John? You and me talked about recording this coming January, didn’t we? Meeting up, trying something out… we can’t do that if you don’t start eating, y’know. Can’t do much of anything at all, can we? So when the doc gets here, gets you all fixed up, we’re gonna see if we can figure something out. Even if it’s just a song or two…

“Maybe we can invite the other two? I’d like that. Don’t know if you will, but… I know Paul would. I know Geo would. Turns out that we all missed each other a bit more than we thought we would…”

Paul cleared his throat and Ringo paused the cloth over John’s face. He turned at the waist until Paul could see his face, pale and more haggard than it had ever been. Until that moment, Paul hadn’t realized just how much grey was strung through the drummer’s beard.

Taking a seat beside Ringo, Paul rested a hand on John’s knee. “We talked about recording in January too. Originally, it was gonna be this month, but the studio that we wanted was booked. So we moved it to January…” Paul held out his hand and Ringo passed him the cloth. “We scheduled it back in July. He sounded alright enough back then…”

“No one could’ve known, Paul. She has such a convincing fantasy painted up…”

“But I _should’ve_ known. I have no excuse, Ritchie, and no one can convince me otherwise. This is, at least to some extent, my fault.”

Seeming to understand, Ringo nodded and turned back to John’s still form. “We all hold a share in it, I suppose. We didn’t _let_ it happen, no. But we didn’t try to stop it either. I called him fat too, Paul, during that whole Shakespeare thing-”

“You didn’t mean anything by it, Rings-”

“But the point is that we should’ve said something. Or, different things, at least… we should’ve said something, Paul.”

“I know. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me every inch of the way, but we made it :))


	16. Paul/John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched a twenty minute video on how IVs worked in the 70's for this chapter among other things so I hope this is accurate :')

Dr. Anderson was an average man, not large or small, not old or young. He was unassuming, to say the least, as he bundled his bags through the door, thanking George as the musician closed it behind him. Knuckling his glasses further up his nose, he surveyed the room and swept a hand through his thinning brunette hair. “Afternoon, gentlemen. Seeing as there are three out of four Beatles present, I reckon I’m at the right cabin?”

Ringo chuckled heartily and extended his hand. “Right you are. I’m Ringo, as you probably know. The drive was alright?”

“Not too bad. This place… it’s a bit back in the woods, isn’t it?”

“All the better for keeping out unwelcome guests.”

The doctor turned to Paul who was conspicuously standing between him and the open bedroom door. “And you are Paul, I presume. May spoke very highly of you.” The doctor smiled warmly despite Paul’s frosty veneer, a glint of humor in his blue eyes. “I believe she said that you’d be… _protective_.”

Paul only narrowed his eyes further and George snorted, clearly pleased by the doctor’s sass. “Aye, Paul is a bit _protective_. Perhaps Mother Macca is a bit _overprotective_ , aye?” Coming up behind the other man, he clapped a hand down on Paul’s squared shoulder. “But then, we all are, I suppose. Comes with the being in show business and all.”

Unphased, the doctor gave them a pleasant smile. “I can assure you that I mean your friend no harm.”

Paul pursed his lips. “My main worry, Dr. Anderson, is confidentiality. May said that you are a friend of David’s?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you understand how important it is that you refrain from speaking to the media?”

For the first time, the doctor looked unbalanced. “Of course I do. I’m sworn to patient confidentiality. There is no condition that excludes John Lennon from that oath. Not that I’ve heard of anyway…”

Still unsure, Paul shared a look with George and Ringo. Surprisingly, the drummer was the one that spoke up, setting his mug down on the counter with a defining click before coming forward. “You can’t blame us for being careful. Our John’s been through it and we don’t want him having anymore to deal with, see. With the press or otherwise. So we’ve gotta be sure of you, don’t we?”

“I can understand that.” The doctor lifted one of his bags, indicating the one also strapped across his chest. “Based on what May said, I’ve tried to bring everything I could possibly think of to help him. The goal, ultimately, is to keep him out of the hospital. If at all possible, I want to try and keep him here, where he’s hidden and its quiet…”

The doctor trailed off, but all three knew what remained unsaid. By keeping John out of the hospital, the other three would be able to stay with him without drawing a crowd. Furthermore, John would also be hidden from whatever contact Yoko might try to make. Though Paul was loath to mettle in their marriage, it was clear enough to him that John hadn’t been in a healthy place with her at the Dakota, mental or otherwise. And although he hated to make the decision for John, Paul knew that the other man was in no state to make such choices on his own.

Extending his hand, Paul stepped forward. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you then, Dr. Anderson.”

The doctor laughed, taking the other man’s hand into his own. “Oh, please. Call me Joel. Never could stand the pretentiousness of it anyway. And it really is an honor to meet you, Mr. McCartney, but I’d like to get a look at him sooner rather than later. Based on the news… well, he sounds like Mr. Starr said. He’s been through it.”

With a final nod, Paul stepped aside and nodded at the bedroom’s entrance.

.

_The rain hit the window outside, drawing little rivulets of water down to the pane. John watched them roll, marveled at the blue cast that the weather outside gave the room. The lights were still off and the room was dim, the green flower-printed walls dancing around them. A paper garden…_

_Lips mouthed lazily at John’s throat and he froze, waiting for their owner to wake up. Sure, he wanted those lips to keep moving, to come up and claim his own mouth too. But Paul didn’t know how John felt. And he hadn’t given any indication that he felt anything similar for John._

_Maybe Paris would work its magic…_

_Instead of waking up and pulling away, instead of making a joke about mistaking John for a particularly stocky bird, Paul continued to work at John’s throat, pulling insistently at his skin with delicate little nips. A tongue swept across John’s pulse point and he startled, unable to hold back a moan at the sensation._

_Baby-soft hair, black and messy, tickled John’s jaw as a hand skated across his bare ribs. A wet sigh was loosed against the shell of John’s ear, followed by a slow sensual grind against his left hip. Paul, it turned out, was naked too._

_The kisses continued and John considered saying something, perhaps to save Paul some embarrassment by waking him up. But when John opened his eyes again, he found himself looking up into warm hazel eyes, eyes that were smiling down at him with enough love and adoration to light up the entire night sky._

_A feeling of intense euphoria swept through John and he lifted a hand to weakly sweep the bangs out of Paul’s face. He looked like a divine being, some deviant angel that God had sent down just for John. As John watched, Paul blinked slowly at him, his plush little lips parting slightly. John wanted nothing more than to kiss them until they were swollen and shining, marked by John’s own mouth._

How am I worthy of touching him?

_John allowed his eyes to flutter closed, the rain-strewn window and paper-garden walls fading away. The room finally melted away too and soon there was only Paul, Paul touching him and breathing him in. John felt like he wanted to cry, but found that he couldn’t. He wanted to speak, to whisper the only truths that he’d ever known into Paul’s raven hair. But it seemed as if he was completely dried up, his body shriveling like a flower, cut loose and left to die in a window vase._

_A faint pinch echoed through John’s arm and he flinched, trying to escape the discomfort. A rustling came from nearby, muffled voices, people conversing as if they were whispering to each other inside a metal pot._

“… should start pretty soon. I don’t want to…”

“… But how long? Is there anything…”

_The second voice made John open his eyes._

_A thin whimper escaped him when he discovered that Paul was gone, replaced by a wood plank ceiling overhead. John turned his head a bit and found a stranger standing over him, a man in a dress shirt and trousers. He flashed a light in John’s eyes before speaking softly to him. His voice was oddly wavy, as if he spoke through water._

_“Hello, there, Mr. Lennon. We’ve started a solution for you. We’re trying to get your fluids back up… working on your fever…”_

_“Is he awake then? Let me see him-”_

_John squirmed beneath the stranger’s hands, wanting to speak, but finding that he couldn’t. His anxiety ticked up considerably when he further discovered the heaviness of his limbs, as if his very veins were filled with lead._

_And then, the clouds parted and Paul was there, older than he’d been in Paris, but just as captivating as ever._

_“Hey there, John-love. You’re alright.”_

_John swept his tongue across his cracked lips, feeling how dry and unwieldy the appendage was in his mouth. As many questions as he had, John couldn’t seem to get anything out except for a low groan. Off to the side, he watched the stranger set up a bottle of solution on a pole, smoothly adjusting the IV plugged into John’s right forearm. Once he was satisfied that all was in order, the man began to examine John’s palms, poking at the half-healed cuts._

_Following John’s attention, Paul smiled. “This is Dr. Anderson. We call him Joel. He’s here to check you out and get you feeling better.”_

_John crinkled his nose and focused on trying to talk. A fuzzy memory was surfacing… Paul had been angry…_

_“Here, let’s see.” The man, Dr. Joel Anderson, reappeared and held out what looked to be a bit of wet flannel to Paul. “Try and get him to suck on this. It should help his throat… really, anything we can get into him is going to help.”_

_John watched, feeling oddly detached, as Paul held the flannel toward him. Confused, he turned his head away, ignoring the hurt look on Paul’s face. There was something wrong… right? They’d fought, or… something? He was supposed to be mad. But all that John felt was tired. So, so tired._

_“Come on, John. Please? Can you try? For me?”_

For me. _Wasn’t everything that John did for Paul? No, of course not… but it certainly felt like it sometimes._

_John allowed the flannel a bit closer, grimacing at the sensation when it brushed his chapped lips. Paul seemed pleased though, so John opened his mouth and allowed him to slip the water-soaked flannel inside._

_Unable to remember why Paul had been mad, John soon forgot to care. Though lukewarm and stale, the water still went a good ways in easing the burning sensation in his dry throat. Plus, it tasted sweet, like sugar had been dissolved into it. But all too soon, Paul was pulling the flannel away, passing it to someone out of sight. “There you are. Better?”_

_Gathering himself, John was still unprepared for harshness of his own voice. “Paul.”_

_Paul smiled, the crow’s feet around his dark eyes deepening._ God isn’t he marvelous? _“That’s me. Last I checked, anyway. How are we, Johnny?”_

_As John prepared himself to answer, the doctor spoke up from further down the bed. “Paul, can you come with me please? I need to speak with you outside. It’ll just be a moment.”_

_With a distracted nod, Paul continued to look down at John. “I’ve got to go for just a moment, love. George and Ringo are right here though. You just sit tight with them until I get back, aye?”_

_Blinking, John had no time to respond before Paul was gone, leaving only the ceiling above in his wake. Distantly, he felt a hand slip into his own, a deep voice speaking nearby, but it all faded into nothing as the ocean stole him away again._

.

“Well? What is it then?”

Paul shoved his fidgeting hands into his pockets, his eyes darting from Joel to the bedroom and back again. “Why won’t he eat? How do we handle the fever?”

“You’re not going to like this… but he’s not sick. At least not physically, anyway.”

“What do you mean? He has to be sick to have a fever that high-”

Joel held up a hand placatingly. “I said he’s not _physically_ sick. You see, Paul-” The doctor pulled out his chart, the one that he’d been writing on continuously since he’d entered the bedroom an hour earlier. “The cuts on his hands are healing nicely, no infection that I can find. His foot was a little nasty, but there won’t be any lasting damage. It doesn’t need stitches, but he won’t be able to walk on it for a bit-”

“What about- what about his weight? Even years ago he wasn’t eating right, so what if that’s part of what’s making him sick?”

“His depleted fat content certainly isn’t helping, no… but his lack of eating is more of _symptom_ than a cause… just as the fever is a symptom of something deeper.”

Paul folded his arms and bit harshly at the callouses on his right ring finger. “But you have to be _sick_ , in order to have _symptoms_ … right?”

Sighing, Joel pulled the glasses from his face and ran a hand through his hair. “He _is_ sick, Paul. He _is_. But it’s in his head. His fever, his weight loss, the constant sleeping and hallucinations… it’s all in his head. And there’s nothing I can prescribe for that, I’m afraid.”

The doctor shook his head, studying the chart in his hand. “You’d would be amazed at how much the brain can affect the rest of the human body. Think of it this way: John’s brain is telling his body that it’s sick and his body is reacting as if it is. It’s developed a fever to fight off an infection that doesn’t exist. He’s afraid to eat because his brain has convinced him that he’s overweight, when he is, in fact, dangerously underweight and dehydrated. Together, these have resulted in fatigue, hallucinations, confusion, malnutrition…”

Joel met Paul’s eyes, his own clouded with worry. “It’s not the flu or cancer, Paul. It’s his mind that’s against him. And no matter how many IVs I give him, no matter how many pills or salves I prescribe, the root of the problem can’t be solved by any of them.”

Paul, overwhelmed, slumped down onto the couch, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Christ… then what do we do? How do I- how do we help him then?”

“We’ve already started.” Joel sat down beside Paul and tilted the chart so that the other man could see. “I’ve started him on an IV to help with the dehydration, and that is a _major_ step toward relieving some of his other ailments. I gave him a mild fever reducer as well, so he should be a bit more lucid the next time he wakes up. Also, that flannel soaked in sugar water? Every little bit of glucose that we can get into him helps. It’s not a substitute for real food, no, but it will help relieve some of the symptoms a bit, such as the anxiety and the worst of the trembling. So we have to try giving him that sugar water every time he’s awake until he can sit up and eat. Which will hopefully be by noon tomorrow at the latest.”

Paul allowed his head to fall forward into his hands, detecting George’s footsteps as the other man joined them in the living room. George sat down beside Paul and gave him a discreet comforting nudge. “You think he’ll be able to eat by tomorrow night, Joel? But what if we can’t _get_ him to?”

Grimacing, Paul realized that George was right. What would they do if John refused to eat like he had before?

Joel pursed his lips and Paul knew immediately that he wasn’t going to like the answer. “He’ll need to be hospitalized, I’m afraid.”

The doctor lay the chart aside and folded his hands. “I’ll be completely honest with you right now: if he’d gone another day or two this way, we likely wouldn’t be able to bring him back. This is a dangerous line he’s walking right now and I won’t lie to you: he’s fragile. More so in his mind than in his body. His current state is a result of years of living inside of his own head, trying to internalize all of his problems in hopes of fixing them on his own. These issues have begun to manifest into physical illness and the only way to help him is for someone to talk to him. To help bring him out of that mental state. Unfortunately, I’m not qualified to help him in that area.”

“What do you mean?” Paul twisted his wedding ring around his finger, feeling it pinch and pull at his clammy skin. “Who can we call then? He’ll never talk to a therapist-”

“I didn’t think that he would. In his case, bringing in a therapist, or any outsider for that matter, might close him up further. It might actually do him more harm than good at this point.” Joel gave Paul and George a sad smile. “From what I’ve been told… by May and others… he has an intense fear of abandonment. Is that right?”

Unwilling to confirm the doctor’s theory, Paul looked away. George, seeing his friend’s discomfort, spoke up. “There’s a history of that, you could say. Family and… otherwise.”

“… I see. Well, the best thing that I could suggest is simply talking to him. Making it clear that he doesn’t have to fear that from any of you. It sounds like the band breaking up did a number on him and he’s likely been trying to rationalize that for the better part of the past ten years. As a result, he’s latched onto someone that he believes can make him better, someone who he thinks can teach him how to earn love from others. And in his struggle to please, uh-hm, _this person_ , he’s made himself physically sick. Instead of helping his feelings of rejection and abandonment, it’s only worsened his mental state.”

George actually rested his hand on Paul’s back, rubbing it comfortingly as the bassist rubbed furiously at his eyes. “So you’re saying that… that if we’d talked to him earlier, then none of this would’ve happened? He wouldn’t be as sick as he is now?”

“No, not at all.” The doctor’s brow furrowed as he studied Paul carefully, taking in the other man’s defeated posture and George’s concerned frown. “The blame rests on no one. No even himself.”

Paul coughed a hoarse laugh and quickly swept a thumb beneath his glistening eyes. “Damn… how much _did_ May tell you then?”

Joel smiled slightly. “She told me enough. And you can have every confidence, Mr. McCartney, that nothing I’ve learned in all this will ever see the light of day. I can promise you that.”

Paul nodded, comforted by George’s heavy hand and the doctor’s word. Though it seemed that many people already suspected them, the last thing that Paul wanted was for it come to light. For the world to know while John was so low and couldn’t speak for himself. _Maybe someday…_

“Aye, Joel?” The three men turned to find Ringo standing the bedroom doorway. “The IV’s run out and his fever seems to be going down. Still asleep though.”

“That’s great, thank you. I’ll start another one and let it finish before I go for the evening-”

“You’re _leaving_?” Paul coughed and cleared his throat, trying to hide his anxiety. “I mean… doesn’t he need to be watched? Monitored?”

Joel smirked as he stood, taking the chart back in hand. “That’s where you three come in. I’ve booked a room at a nearby resort for the night. If anything changes, just call me and I can be here within ten minutes. He should sleep decently tonight, especially after we get a second IV in him. Beyond just letting him sleep and giving him drinks from the flannel, there’s not much that we can do for him immediately. Keeping him calm and having you three with him are going to be the best things for him, I think.”


	17. Paul

Once Joel had gone for the night, a strange silence fell over the cabin. It wasn’t an easy quiet as Paul had hoped it would be and he was left to stare listlessly at the bedroom wall, his hand linked with John’s. The ill man hadn’t moved since he’d fallen asleep earlier in the afternoon, hadn’t even responded when Joel had connected the second IV.

Ringo hovered in the doorway, occasionally helping George in the kitchen. The former lead guitarist was busily making supper for the rest of them, utilizing the kitchen’s copiously stocked shelves and fridge. As much as Paul wanted to help, he couldn’t find the energy within himself to so much as stand up.

Furthermore, the mere thought of eating sent a pang of nausea through Paul’s knotted up innards. Even his tea, carefully prepared by Ringo, sat untouched on the nightstand, long since gone cold. Reaching for it would’ve required Paul to move and he didn’t want to let go of John’s hand and he doubted that he’d be able to hold onto the mug one-handed anyway. The past few days were catching up with him and, coupled with the jet lag he still suffered from, Paul felt himself beginning to flag.

“Y’know, Paul-”

The dozing man jumped at George’s voice, lifting his head in time to see the other man enter the room. In his hands, George carried a steaming bowl. He gave Paul’s untouched tea a critical look before refocusing on the man himself. “Letting yourself get rundown isn’t going to help anyone. Especially John.”

Paul watched him place the bowl beside the tea before turning away, fixing his drooping eyes on John once more. He’d have given anything for John to open his eyes, just once to show that he was still with them. But Paul didn’t dare disturb him, even if it would mean soothing his own fears. “I know that, Geo. I’m just watching him. Making sure the fever doesn’t come back.”

Nodding, George stood over him for a few moments before Paul looked up at him again. “What?”

“Rings and I don’t blame you, y’know. Things were nasty back then, yeah? But what’s happened to John isn’t your fault. It’s not your fault and no one blames you, Macca. _No one_.”

“But it _is_ my fault, George,” Paul gasped, a bit of his carefully constructed composure slipping. “None of this would’ve happened- things would be different-”

George reached down to him and pulled Paul into a warm hug, quietly shushing his childhood friend. “You’re tired and hungry. Now, I’m going to sit here until you eat at least half of that and then you’re going to cuddle up with John here and get some sleep, aye?”

“What about you pair?”

“There’s a couch and a chair. Ringo isn’t as behind on sleep as you and I are, so he’s gonna be up for a bit anyway.” George released Paul just long enough to grab the bowl of soup and push it into his hands. “It’s one of the vegetarian ones so you’ve no excuse not to give it a go.”

Allowing a smile, Paul stirred the soup with his spoon before tilting back to check on John. The older man was still sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed and serene. There was even a rosy dusting across his cheeks.

“He’s not going anywhere, Paul.”

“I know, I know…”

Hurriedly, Paul downed the soup, deciding to finish it after all. But when George offered to get him a second bowl, Paul quickly declined. Truthfully, sleep was beginning to tug insistently at his limbs and Paul didn’t fancy falling asleep and dumping soup onto the floor.

As George stood with the bowl and made his way to the door, Paul called out, his throat threatening to close around the word he spoke.

“Hazza…”

George froze, the old Hamburg nickname stopping him dead in his tracks. They rarely used those names anymore. He turned back to his oldest friend, expectantly.

Paul sniffed, his voice weak and eyes shiny. “I know we don’t say it enough. And we really should, but-”

“I love you, too, Macca.”

-I love you, Hazza. And… thank you. For everything.”

Paul took John’s hand back into his own, knowing that George would understand what was left unsaid. After a further pause, George nodded from where he stood in the doorway, his face solemn. “You know that not everyone is going to be okay with it. It might ruin us…”

“And how would you feel about that?”

Before George could answer, Ringo peeked around the corner, having clearly heard the discussion. Leaning against the opposite side of the doorframe from George, he nodded to the other man before smiling at Paul. “I’d like to think that we live our songs, don’t you Geo? And I don’ remember ever putting rules and conditions on love.”

Paul swallowed and looked back to George, still standing silently. A minute or two passed before he huffed through his nose and met Paul’s anxious eyes. “I reckon Ritchie’s right. I’m not so sure that we’ve been doing it right in this world, putting restrictions and conditions on who we’re allowed to love. Seems to me like we should grow love wherever we can, don’t you?”

Unable to speak, Paul nodded and blinked quickly, biting at his lip. Without another word, the other two nodded and slipped out, George pulling the door closed as they went.

After a while, Paul made his way up onto unsteady feet and hurriedly stripped down, turning off the bedside lamp as he went. In the newly dark room, it was easier to see the snow falling past the window, the flakes highlighted by the security lights outside. From where he stood at the window’s pane, Paul could barely make out two silhouettes standing in the driveway, smoke wafting away from them as they conversed with each other. The sight of his bandmates, smoking and leaning together under the gently falling snow, gave Paul a feeling of peace as he fumbled through the darkness, away from the window and back to the bed. It was almost dreamlike.

Feeling the chill of the weather beyond the window, Paul crawled under the covers on the other side of the bed and snuggled down in the sheets. Despite the cold, pajamas had always felt too restrictive to him. And usually he would have someone to cuddle up to…"

Rolling over, Paul turned his back to the window and looked across at John, registering the profile of his face in the dim light. His chest rose and fell easily under the covers as soft snores sighed through his open mouth. It was rare to see the other man so relaxed and still. Even in sleep, Paul remembered that John was a wiggler, his dreams rarely allowing him a moment of real peace.

Usually, when John’s dreams were especially troublesome, Paul would reach across and brush his fingertips across his face, from forehead to chin and back again. Just the lightest of touches could smooth the tightness from John’s brow and ease him back into a deeper, more fulfilling sleep.

But as Paul watched his partner breath, unmoving on his side of the bed, he felt a sense of keen loss. John, despite being right there in front of him, was as far away as he’d ever been. Not quite lost, but not quite found either. He seemed not to need Paul as he lay there sleeping peacefully, a world away instead of just a few inches.

Oddly tentative, Paul reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers across John’s cheek, relieved to find the skin pleasantly warm. As he trailed them down the other man’s neck, John sighed quietly and shifted, turning his face into Paul’s touch as he slept. Taking the movement as an invitation, Paul scooted closer, close enough that their noses and foreheads brushed together.

Within moments of syncing his breathing with John’s, Paul fell asleep. The sound of George and Ringo stomping their boots at the door was the last thing he heard before he found himself tumbling into an easy dream, one with red wine and Parisian flowers all around. One where John was only a kiss away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short uneventful chapter friends. I've been sick and writer's block is killing me. I actually wrote 30 pages of nonsense before coming to this so cheers ;)


	18. Paul

“Paul? Paulie?”

Paul sighed deeply, still half-lost in a dream. Stretching, he felt himself grin, savoring the sound of John’s sleep-rough voice in his head. “John,” he whispered back, his eyes still closed against the morning light. Maybe, if he didn’t move too much, he would fall right back into the dream he’d been having…

“Paul…”

Though it was less shocking than the previous time, Paul felt the past few days rush back to him. Everything, from John naked and bleeding, to having George and Ringo burst into the cabin, to watching the second IV empty steadily into John’s skinny arm. It all flashed through his mind in a second and Paul felt his stomach do a flip. John was _really there_.

As Paul grimaced at the bright sunlight pouring through the window, he wondered if he would ever stop marveling at everything that had occurred. Days ago, just the mere thought of John would’ve been enough to get his heart racing. Now, here he was, tucked away with John in their secret hideaway cabin, not only in the same room, but in the same bed.

Paul rolled to face the other man, trying to keep the ridiculous smile from his face. “I’m here, I’m awake. Good morning.”

John didn’t acknowledge Paul’s greeting and continued to stare listlessly at the ceiling above. His eyelids fluttered, the eyes beneath them cloudy and distant. Scooting closer, Paul’s smile fell away as he tried to catch John’s attention, waving his hand near the other man’s face. Still, John failed to react beyond a softly breathed, “Paul.”

“I’m right here, sweet. Can you look at me, please? I can get you more water-”

“Do you… Do you know what Double Fantasy means?”

“Do I know… uh, you said it was a flower. A flower that you saw in Bermuda. Right?”

John nodded his head slightly against the pillow. “Freesias… they mean ‘trust,’ you know. And the number nine too, but… I trusted her, Paul. I trusted you. I did.”

“John, you-”

“There was a storm.” John’s tongue darted across his lips, too pale in color for Paul’s liking. “There was a storm on the way down… I saw you in the waves. I was at the wheel and… and everyone had gone below to wait it out. But you… you were in the waves, Paul. My dear one… lost out in those terrible waves… just like in Miami…”

John smiled a bit and a lone tear trailed down his temple, vanishing into his hair. “I thought I’d lost you again, but then… I heard you singing. I heard you, out in the storm. So I followed you, tried to find you and… those songs just _came_ to me. From somewhere, somehow… and then I saw the freesias…”

Paul shifted closer to the other man, close enough to feel his body heat. “What did they look like? The freesias, I mean.”

“Pink freesias… they were dying. I didn’t tell her everything about them, the freesias that I saw. How they were wilted and fading… how they were pink and not white…” John breathed in, his collarbones jumping sharply with the movement. “Do you know what pink freesias mean?” Paul swallowed, unnerved by the monotone quality in John’s voice. “No. What do they mean?”

John’s smile broadened and another tear escaped. “They mean ‘motherly love.’ Can you believe that? I call her ‘Mother,’ you know… anyway. They were dying… I told Yoko that the freesias were white.”

Resisting the urge to wipe John’s tears away, Paul struggled to steady his voice. “Why did you tell her they were white? What do white ones mean?”

“They mean purity. Innocence. That’s what the plaque said.” John finally looked away from the ceiling, his exhausted eyes finally resting on Paul. “It was perfect, see. A fantasy for a fantasy. A lie for a lie. And I saw it… the lie was dying… the pink ones were _dying_ … so I lied. She loved it…. I think. She loved it and she didn’t even know why I chose it…”

“So… why did you choose it then, Johnny? What does this all mean?”

“I knew… I knew before I even knew that I knew… I _knew_. It was a lie, all of it. But flowers don’t lie… Love doesn’t lie…” John’s eyes trailed away from Paul, settling once more on the ceiling. “The question is… were _we_ a lie? Was it ever _real_ for you, Paul? Or was it just real for me?”

“John, I-”

“Don’t lie. God help me, Paul- if you ever cared- if I was ever _anyone_ to you- _don’t lie to me_.”

Paul gazed down at his former lover, taking in his weakened voice and sunken eyes. A thousand moments shared between them flashed across Paul’s mind, stealing his breath away, making him choke. “Christ, John… You’re my home. Of course it was real. Nothing’s real _without_ you.”

There was a long pause before John spoke again, his voice a frail whisper. “I’m sorry, Paul…”

Well _that_ certainly wasn’t the response that Paul had been expecting. “What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry that I can’t believe you. I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, John-love-”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me that, Paul. Please don’t.”

“You… why not?”

“Because it doesn’t _mean_ anything. None of this _means_ anything. Don’t call me ‘love’ or any of that shite. I don’t want you to call me any of them, ‘lright? I can’t stand it-”

Paul felt as if a knife was being driven between his ribs, the blade scraping against his very bones. “John…”

“It’s not enough. Everyone leaves and it’s not enough. And that’s _fine_ , alright? It’s fine. Just stop fucking _lying_ to me-”

“I’m not lying to you, John-”

“Do you know what Double Fantasy means, Paul?”

Paul froze momentarily, his breath stalling in his chest. “You just… you just told me it was a flower…”

“Aye, but… but what does _it_ mean to _you_?”

Staring deep into John’s hazy eyes, Paul felt realization began to dawn over him, colder and more painful than frost stung fingertips. Double Fantasy didn’t mean that John loved Yoko, didn’t mean that he was living a fantasy life with her. They didn’t have the perfect life at all…

It literally meant that he was living a fantasy. Double Fantasy… it meant that John and Yoko had been living a lie, that they had been painting a picture for the world to see without it having a hint of truth behind the canvas of their public lives. The pink flowers, the white flowers, seeing and hearing Paul in the storm, that familiar burst of Lennon-originality that had suddenly re-entered John’s songs…

_Ah. There it is then._

It was suddenly undeniable, the truth of what John was saying. Double Fantasy wasn’t written by two lovers living a dream life in New York City. No. Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Double Fantasy was the sound of an old muse coming home, the singing of a voice in the darkness of the storm. It was about a man who had discovered the truth and was arriving home with love and white freesias in his hands. The album itself was a lie… but the songs within it bore the truth. And the truth… _the truth_ …

John turned away when Paul reached forward, the bassist’s fingertips barely brushing the other man’s face as he retreated away from Paul. “I can’t do it. I _can’t_. I can’t do it again-”

“It’s going to be okay, John. It’s going to be alright-”

“You said I was your home, Paul. But what about me? Where was _my_ home?”

Paul tried again, needing to touch, but John flinched away. Feeling his heart drop into his stomach, Paul retracted his hand once more. “I misspoke back then, John, I didn’t think that-”

“What? You didn’t think that what? That your words would have consequences?”

John scrambled to sit upright, the covers falling down around his waist. Paul couldn’t help it as his gaze fell to John’s skinny frame, the knobby hip bones and the prominent ribs. “John, please calm down-”

“You’ve a nasty habit of that, Paul. Of just _saying_ things, y’know? Like you don’t know what you can do to people with a word! When you took me out that day, out behind the ashram, out in the rain, I thought that I knew what was coming- I thought- I thought I knew, but-”

The memory of that day had replayed through Paul’s mind more times than John would ever know. How terribly naïve he had been, to think that he and John’s relationship was separate from the band. How had Paul ever thought that the band could continue? How could he have expected their conversation to go any differently than the exact way that it had ended up going?

Paul dropped his face into his hand, a low moan of anguish escaping from his constricted throat. Why _hadn’t_ he thought about John’s perspective back then? He should’ve _known_ that John would see it as another rejection, another person leaving him all alone. He should’ve _known_ that any perceived rejection by John would be the end of everything they’d created together.

 _PR man Paul,_ his mind chided softly. _You were so worried about what the press would say that you didn’t hear yourself saying those exact things that they would’ve said to John anyway. Didn’t hear yourself rejecting him just like everyone else had done-_

Paul felt the bed shift and had no time to react before John crumpled to the wood floor, his legs giving out when he tried to stand up on his own.

Scrambling, Paul managed to kick free of the bed covers and gain his feet, the chill of the room going unnoticed in his hurry to reach John. But the moment that he knelt at John’s side and moved to help him up, the other man slapped his hands away with a snarl. “Don’t fucking touch me McCartney! You’ve done enough! Enough! Enough-”

And just as abruptly as his outburst had set in, it withered away into nothing. Paul held himself still, poised over John’s crumpled body as the other man cried softly, his face pressed against the wood floor. “I’m not. _I’m not enough_. No one _stays_. No one _wants me_.”

Behind Paul, the door creaked open and he looked back to see George peering in. His eyes widened when he spotted John on the floor, but he quickly ducked back out when Paul frantically waved him away.

Alone with John again, Paul bent forward. “Johnny, you’re more than enough. Please let me help you-”

“I miss Mimi. I want to see Mimi.”

John’s voice was so small, so quiet and heart wrenching that it almost did Paul in. Somehow, the bassist managed to keep his voice gentle and free of the tears trying to steal his voice. “Maybe we can call her up then, yeah? But you have to try and eat something first-”

“I can’t.”

“John…” Paul sighed and chucked all pride to the wind. "John, I’m begging you. Alright?”

Paul swallowed as John looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. Paul forced himself to continue. “They… the doctor says you’ll have to go to the hospital if you don’t eat. He says that they’ll have to keep you there until you’re better… Christ, Johnny, if I could go back and fix everything, if I could go back and say all the things that I should’ve said back then, _I would_. Damn it all, _I would_. I’d tell you every day how wonderful you are, how- how bloody _beautiful_ you are. I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that you are so, so fucking brilliant and that I adore you. I wish I could go back, John, and tell you every day how much I love you.

“But I _can’t_ go back, as much as I wish I could. And no words will ever be able to tell you how sorry I am that I failed. I understand that, yeah? And I know that you’re hurting and it’s my fault and that you are completely within your rights not to want me to touch you or help you. But if you won’t let me, then please let me get George or Ritchie. If you want me to, I’ll stay away, I’ll do whatever it is that you want me to do, John, and I won’t say a thing about it. But I’m begging you, _please_. Let someone help you. John, if _I_ ever meant anything to _you_ … _please_.”

John sat perfectly still when Paul had finished, his face impassive and perfectly blank. After some time had passed, he leaned closer to Paul, his voice low. “I remember something. From when you- when you helped me bathe…”

Paul tried to remember those moments through the whirlwind of the past few days, struggling to recall if he’d said or done anything particularly memorable. “You do? What do you remember?”

“…I remember that I thought I’d died. And I thought that you’d come to take me home…”

Paul shivered at the memory, of feeling of John’s water-slick skin under his hands, of hearing John’s soft sighs as he worked the soap through soft auburn hair. Something about the act had stayed in John’s fevered, fractured mind, had stayed with him until this moment. “I remember that. Yes.”

“I said that I loved you. Both before and… and in that moment. And you said that you loved me too. That you’d never stopped.”

Paul forced his hands to stay still, even though he wanted nothing more than to take John’s face between them and run his thumbs across the tear tracks beneath his eyes. “It’s true. I never stopped, not for a second.”

“I wanted to believe it. After everything we’d said and done, you still could… I felt it. I _felt_ that you did, I think. But I- I’m not sure of anything, Paul, and… I wanted it to be true… I _want_ it to be true-”

“John?” Paul waited for the other to look at him. “I can’t ask that you forgive me, but… can I at least help you now?”

When John finally nodded, Paul slipped his arms beneath the other man and lifted him up off of the floor, climbing up onto his feet easily enough. Wobbling a bit with his own exhaustion, Paul placed John back on the bed, sitting him down so that he could sit upright with his legs over the side. Once he was sure that John wasn’t going to tip forward and fall again, Paul crossed the room and snatched up his own robe from the chair.

As he shrugged it over his shoulders and pulled John’s own robe from the closet, Paul knocked at the door discretely, a quiet announcement to Ringo and George that they could come in if they wanted.

Making his way back to the bed, Paul wrapped John’s robe around him, helping the other man tuck his arms through the sleeves. “Before the other two come around, I just want you to know… I do love you. And I’ll do my best to show it, yeah? I know I never did say it enough, but-”

“‘Today I love you more than yesterday.’” Slowly, John allowed himself to rest stiffly against Paul’s side, barely twitching when Paul looped his arm tentatively around his back.

Equally tense, Paul allowed himself an even sigh. “That song… that one was meant for me.”

“Aye.”

Paul held back from kissing the top of John’s head and instead gave him a light squeeze. “‘Right now, I love you more, right now,’” he sang softly, feeling the tension begin to bleed from his shoulders.

Shifting to place himself more firmly against Paul’s side, John, his voice crackly with dryness, still managed to sing the next verse. “‘Oh, ho… no more crying… Oh, ho… no more crying…’”

“We always did talk better through music, didn’t we?”

“I suppose we did. I suppose we still do.”

Across the room, there was a slight knock at the door before it cracked open and George peeked in. As he ducked into the room, Paul spotted a steaming bowl in his hands. “Ringo thought we should heat up some leftover soup and bring it in. See if you felt like trying it…”

“Speaking of whom… where is Ringo? Is he up yet?” Paul gratefully took the soup from George, catching a whiff of it as he did. The poignant scent of spices, the kind that John enjoyed so much, stung Paul’s nose. “He certainly didn’t hold back on the seasonings did he?”

Instead of responding, George’s eyes darted to John’s slumping posture. “Actually, Macca… I was thinking that you could go check on him.”

“Check on him?” Paul frowned when John turned his head away from the bowl, resisting the offered spoon. “What’s to check on? He’s in the kitchen, isn’t he?”

“Paul…”

Finally facing George, Paul noticed the dark bruises painting the hollows beneath the younger man’s tired eyes. His hair was mussed as if it hadn’t been combed and he looked downright spent, like he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Sitting up a bit, Paul squinted critically up at him. “Geo?” he asked, voice tightening. “Where’s Ritchie?”

By then, John was also looking up at George too, still blinking sleepily but awake enough to catch onto their conversation. “Geo? Where’s Rings?”

“Everything’s fine, he’s just talking to Dr. Anderson in the living room. The doc wants to talk to both him and Paulie together.” George took the bowl back from Paul and gave the bassist a pointed look.

Pursing his lips, Paul leaned over to John, intending to whisper some encouragement into his hair, but John angled himself away, as avoidant as he’d been just minutes before. He didn’t speak, but his posture sent the message clear enough. _Go away. Stop. Don’t coddle me. I don’t care._

Despite feeling as though he’d been physically struck, Paul recovered quickly and pulled away. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Please try and eat for Geo…”

Standing, Paul forced himself not to look back as George took his place beside John on the bed, bowl of soup at the ready. It would take time, Paul knew, to regain John’s trust. But being so far from him… it was harder than Paul realized it had been.

Paul closed the door behind himself and turned into the living room, spotting Dr. Anderson by the couch. The young man had pulled a table chair over and was sitting across from Ringo, talking quietly to him. At Paul’s arrival, both men looked up, one relieved, the other clearly not.

Dr. Anderson stood and extended his hand, his voice artificially light as he greeted Paul. “Good morning, Mr. McCartney. How’s John?”

“He’s alright enough. Talking more, and he’s awake. Anyway, Geo’s trying to get him to eat something… he said that you wanted to talk to me and Ringo…”

Peering around Dr. Anderson’s shoulder, Paul studied the drummer where he was sitting quietly on the couch. Paul could see that Ringo’s posture was slouched and his face was turned down, his hands hanging limply between his parted knees. Paul moved around Dr. Anderson, anxiety gripping his chest. “Rings? Ritchie, what’s wrong?”

Even when Paul took the chair that Dr. Anderson had vacated, Ringo still didn’t look up at him, his shoulders heaving with a tremulous sigh. Cautiously, Paul reached out and patted the other man’s shoulder, trying to draw his attention. He discovered that the drummer was sweating and shaking profusely, his flannel shirt clinging to his body.

Clamping a hand own on Ringo’s upper arm, Paul felt the other man jump under the physical contact. And when Ringo did at last lift his head, the bassist immediately recognized the glassy sheen in his blue eyes, the pinprick-tightness of his pupils. He’d been there himself, after all, not so long ago.

Swallowing thickly, Ringo looked own again, his breathing much too fast. “I’m s-so sorry, Paulie-”

“Christ, Ritchie…” Paul rested his hand on the back of Ringo’s neck, applying steadying pressure as the other man dropped his face into his own two hands. “Are you in withdrawal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have listened to Double Fantasy maybe a thousand times this week and I am DONE.
> 
> Also, thank you all again for your wonderful comments on the last chapter. Your support and understanding means a lot to me :)


	19. Paul

“How long has he been like this? When was his last drink?”

“Last night. He said that he was finished with it, and by the time I found out, he’d already emptied all the rest-”

Paul clawed a hand through his hair, glaring up at the surrounding trees. “And neither of you thought to tell me?” What happened to _‘we’re a family’?_

“Would you have really wanted me to come in and risk waking John up?” George pulled a drag from his cigarette, dragging his boot through the snow on the porch steps. “Besides, you heard what Anderson said. I’ll go with him, get him checked in.” The slender guitarist heaved a heavy sigh. “He’s dead set on doing this, Paul. I was up all night talking to him. He’s had it hard-”

“Well, I’m just so _damn_ glad for your heart-to-heart then, aren’t I?” Paul struggled to calm himself as he continued to pace the length of the front porch, back and forth, back and forth. “Why _now_ , eh? Did he say?”

Despite Paul’s angry questioning, George’s tone remained calm, his posture relaxed. “He said that seeing John like he is… it’s made him realize some things. He wants to do this before it’s too late. Says he wants to start living again and if he waits he’ll lose his nerve.”

Paul knew that George was right, to his chagrin. Really, Paul was just angry with himself for not having noticed and addressed Ringo’s state earlier.

They’d all heard about the car accident in Surrey the previous May, an event that was quickly followed by Ringo’s disastrous interview with John Davidson in July. Distracted with his own touring and admittedly cowed by the prospect of reaching out, Paul had largely turned a blind eye to Ringo’s struggles and trials. In fact, he’d nearly managed to talk himself out of caring for the goings on of his former bandmates, the sting of the breakup still every fresh in his mind. Of course, he’d never quite been able to do that in John’s case… but he’d come close with the others.

Then, when John called crying for help, Paul had realized just how much he _did_ care, for both his former partner and the other two. When they’d arrived at the cabin the day prior, Ringo had seemed fine enough… little had Paul known that the drummer had been sneaking drinks from his stash, carefully concealed in his luggage. Doing a quick sweep of the cabin that morning, George and Paul had discovered the collection bottles beside the bathtub, each and every one of them having been emptied down the drain during the night.

George sniffed and cleared his throat. “He’ll be alright. They both will. Just a rough patch here.”

Paul nodded and finally stopped pacing, his body sagging as he leant against the porch railing. _All things must pass_.

“I should probably call Linda. And Mimi. John said he wanted to talk to her, but I want to give her a heads up, y’know?”

Stubbing out his cigarette in the snow, George pulled out another and lit it without pause. Paul could see that the other man’s mind was far away, his hands unsteady as he sucked in another lungful of smoke. “Geo?”

As if having forgotten Paul’s presence, George blinked at him. There was a deeply seated exhaustion in his young face, tempered by eyes that might’ve been a hundred years old. “Just hate seeing Ritchie like that… I woke up to him puking just after midnight…”

“I know…”

“He said some things, Paul. He said some things when I was helping him get cleaned up.” George shook his head and kicked a flurry of snow off the front steps. “We can’t… we can’t let things like this happen, Paul. Not ever again. I don’t think- I don’t know if they’d-”

Paul nodded along and jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “They’re adults though, y’know. We can’t just pause our lives-"

George waved a hand through the air, dismissive. “Stop it, Paul. I don’t wanna hear what you tell yourself at night. I wanna hear the truth.”

Finishing up his second cigarette at a break neck pace, George flung the stub into the yard and moved to start a third. Before he could light it though, Paul reached out and rested his hand on the younger man’s arm. “Ease up, Hazza. Don’t need you smoking yourself to death now.”

Though he gave the bassist a glare, George tucked the third cigarette away. “I’m just saying that we all grew up together, so we can’t just severe each other like rotten limbs, Macca. That’s not what we are, and we never can be something as simple as that. We’re _part_ of each other, see, and, whether we like it or not, we need each other. We wouldn’t be putting our lives on hold at all. We’d be living our _best lives_ if we worked it out and stayed together. At least in some capacity, anyway.”

Paul studied the other man, a bit taken back by his words. It was rare, after all, for George to say so much in one go. It told Paul that he meant what he was saying. “I understand that, I do. But I can’t go back to how things were, Geo. I can’t do that again.”

The hideousness of what had happened between them all, the reality that George might miss it to some degree, threatened to take Paul to his knees. Had he forgotten what it had done to him? What it had done to them all?

Fortunately, George was already shaking his head in the negative. “I couldn’t go back to how it was either… I don’t want to, not like that. Not as a band, but as a _family_. We need to talk to each other more, Paul…”

George looked down, his cheeks flushing with more than just the cold weather. “I… you know that I love John and Rings. Bastard that John can be, I do love him. He and I have a lot to talk through and all, but anyway. I love you too. And after talking to Rings, hearing about everything he’s been through… we have to talk to each other, Macca. Because next time… next time there might not be all four of us around to figure it out.”

“What do you mean?”

After a moment of hesitation, George turned to face his childhood friend. “You remember when Rings shaved his head a few years back?” Paul nodded, unsure of where this was going. Licking his lips, George pressed on. “Well, he told me this morning… he told me that he’d decided that he either had to cut his hair or his wrists. He said… he said that he chose his hair because he was a coward, Paul. Our Ritchie said that…”

“Christ.”

The video of Ringo singing, his head shaved bald and his eyes empty, flashed through Paul’s mind. _You say you know me… But you don’t know me at all…_

George toed the snow at their feet and dragged his sleeve beneath his nose. “It’s not our fault, I know… but it sure fucking feels like it, don’t it? Things could’ve been different-”

“I wasn’t the only one who did it wrong, Geo-”

“I know, Paul.” George finally looked at the other man, his eyes open and sincere. “We shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t have tried to box you in. We shouldn’t have listened to Klein or anyone else, shouldn’t have let them come between us like they did.” The former lead guitarist looked away, down at the snow. “I was so angry with you and John… and you picked at me songs something terrible, you did, but… but it doesn’t mean that I made the right choices. I was angry and I was right to be angry, but… Christ, Paul. You went through Hell, didn’t you? And you got left alone too…”

Paul worked his jaw and sucked in a breath, biting harshly at his lip. A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up, surprised to find George immediately in front of him. “Paul… I forgive you, aye? I know you were just trying to keep some control in a situation that was out of control. I know you didn’t mean to hurt us, and we all saw after it was said and done that Klein was a fraud… I guess what I’m saying is that we were wrong, love. We were wrong, and I’m- I need you to understand-”

“I forgive you.” Paul reached and pulled George into a crushing hug. “I forgive you and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for it all, a’right? We never should’ve- fuck, we never should’ve acted like you couldn’t write, Geo. Never should’ve pushed you out-”

George gripped onto the bassist’s shoulders tight enough to hurt, his nose pushed painfully hard into Paul’s coat. They stayed that way for several seconds, a decade-worth of pain and regret falling to wither away at their feet. “I’m so glad you came, Geo. I’m so glad you’re here.”

"Of course I’m here, Paulie. I’ll always be there when you need me, aye? I know you will be too, after all.”

“Always. I will.”

As Paul pulled away, he felt lighter than he had in years, as if he was finally sharing the terrible weight that had burdened him for so long. It was a euphoric feeling, not unlike the rush when the morphine finally takes effect and the pain vanishes like mist.

Shaking off the last of his tremors, Paul cast a glance back at the door. Inside, he knew that Dr. Anderson was examining John and likely briefing Ringo on his various treatment options. While Paul had been out in the living room talking to Ringo and the doctor, George had gotten John to eat almost the entire bowl of soup before John finally turned away. Upon hearing that John had eaten, Paul had nearly cried with relief. Even if it was only one meal, getting him to eat at all was a sign that John was still reachable to some degree.

Ringo, unfortunately, was not going to see the light at the end of his own tunnel any time soon. After George had explained quickly what was wrong with the drummer, Dr. Anderson had sat own on the couch with Ringo and gone over the possible side effects that he could face for quitting his alcohol habit so suddenly. Among those symptoms was something called delirium tremens, a symptom that the doctor had refused to go into deeper detail on. By the way Dr. Anderson had reassured them that it only occurred in rare cases, Paul guessed that it didn’t mean anything good.

George blinked and cleared his throat. “I’m worried about Rings,” he said, almost as if he could read Paul’s mind. “He’s already feeling it, the shakes and nausea. I just hope he doesn’t cave and go looking… you don’t have anything around here do you?”

“No, never kept any out here. We always brought whatever we needed and then left with it too.”

Paul could feel the other man’s eyes on his face, a silent question being asked. He knew that, despite the lead guitarist curiosity, George would never ask it out loud. Deciding to spare the other man, Paul shrugged. “We needed a place, that’s all. Somewhere we could be just us.”

George surprised Paul with an understanding nod. “I’m sorry about that too…”

Wide-eyed, Paul gave him a look. “What for?”

“That you and John didn’t feel like you could tell us. Rings and I suspected, y’know. After you… after [what happened in Miami](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275822/chapters/63966553), it was pretty obvious, at least to us. No one else though.”

“It was… ‘obvious’?”

A sly grin drew up the corner of George’s mouth. “You lot have been dancing around each other since the early days, Paulie. Like a pair of cats. Or magnets… But it wasn’t until Miami that Rings and I really started to see it-”

Both men jumped when the cabin’s door creaked open behind them. Dr. Anderson gave them a smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Mr. Lennon is asking for you Mr. McCartney. And Mr. Starkey is almost ready to go.”

As the doctor ducked back inside, George and Paul shared a look. Geo kicked of the snow that was clumped to his feet. “Are you ready for this?

Paul knew that George wasn’t asking about going inside.

He offered his friend a smile, the first weightless smile that he’d given in a while. “Aye. I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am exhausted g'night:)


	20. Paul/John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: suicide mention

Paul nodded to Ringo, more than a little saddened that he couldn’t hug him goodbye. But it was clear that the drummer was in no mood to be touched or coddled, keeping his head down as Dr. Anderson counted out pills into his jittery hand. Already, a terrible headache had begun to dog him and George held a waste basket at the ready should Ringo need it. As Paul looked on from beside John at the bar, he realized that, despite John’s ongoing despondence, he truly didn’t envy George’s upcoming drive to Syracuse.

Noticing the dark circles under George’s eyes once again, Paul pulled him aside. “Are you sure, Geo? I can always come with and help…”

But George was already shaking his head, a soft smile on his face. “Johnny needs you. And aye, this’ll be a bitch to be sure. But Rings needs to go and I know having me there will help him. Doc is giving him the good stuff, enough to keep him together for the trip.” They both glanced at Ringo as he downed the pills, turning pale as he fought to keep them down. A flash of doubt crossed George’s tired face. “Sorry ahead of time for the car.”

“Sod the car, man. I know you’re tired, so just remember: they drive on the right side of the road here.” Paul was glad when George quirked a slight smile at his teasing. “And call me when you get there, aye?”

“I will, Macca. Make sure you make your own calls too.”

“Already got ‘em lined up.”

Paul watched as George slung a heavy coat around Ringo’s hunched shoulders, making sure that the surly drummer was as cozy as could be before he ushered him out of the kitchen and toward the side door. As Ned had promised, the car left for Paul’s use was ready and waiting in the garage, tank full and engine warm. George had elected to leave his and Ringo’s rental at the cabin as its tank was near empty after their drive from New York. It wouldn’t due for George to stop and get gas on the way, not with Ringo feeling the way he was.

As Paul followed them to the door, Ringo turned back suddenly. Despite the obvious pain in his eyes and the waxiness of his sweaty face, the little drummer gave him a smile. “It was good to see you, Paulie. You take c-care o’ John, yeah? We’ll be alright.”

Without waiting for Paul to respond, Ringo faced John next.

John hadn’t said a word the entire time that they’d been packing up, his face blank as he followed the movements of the other four men. After eating his soup earlier, Dr. Anderson had applied another IV, confirming with relief that John was close to reaching a safe hydration level. Even as John sat silently at the kitchen bar, his skinny arm lay flat on the countertop, an IV taped securely to his left hand.

Making his way to John, Ringo stopped in front of his former bandmate. “What d-do you always say about the, uh- about the end? Johnny?”

Slowly, as if ascending from a dream, John lifted his shaggy head and looked the other man in the eye. Paul watched, struck, as something passed between John and Ringo, something like recognition, but soul-deep. Even Dr. Anderson, the only outsider in their midst, seemed to sense the shift, readjusting his glasses and holding his breath where he stood by the door.

Smiling softly, John reached out and Ringo did to, their hands linking together in the middle. When John spoke, his voice was ragged but strong. “It will all be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”

“It wasn’t okay, Johnny. It wasn’t _okay_ -”

“And neither is this right now.” John swallowed heavily, his body hunching over their joined hands. “I’m sorry, Ritchie.”

“Me too. Me too.”

Ringo cleared his throat and steadied himself, darting his tongue hurriedly across his lips. “Actually, ‘fore I, um- before I’m sick again, uh. I need something from you, Lennie.”

John blinked up at the other man, the nickname catching him off guard. “Aye? What is it then?”

“I need you to promise- to promise that you’ll be on the other side.”

Paul felt his throat close as John stared up at Ringo, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly at first. It took a few tries before he managed to form words. “Alright. But- but only if you promise too.”

Ringo smiled, really smiled, his long nose crinkling. “I do. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Alright then.”

Ringo turned away and, without a backward glance, vanished out the side door and into the garage.

Paul stayed back and out of the way, offering a wave as George made sure Ringo was settled in one more time and backed the car out of the garage. Walking back inside the cabin, Paul and Dr. Anderson stood at the front window and watched until they were completely gone, the car steadily crawling up the driveway until it vanished amid the dense trees.

Dr. Anderson checked John’s IV, carefully tapping the bottle where it was suspended on a pole at John’s side. “Once this one’s done, you should be set, Mr. Lennon. So long as you eat and drink regularly, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Instead of thanking the doctor, John just continued to stare at the door where Ringo and George had vanished from.

Gathering up his things, Dr. Anderson moved to stand beside Paul at the front window. “George mentioned that you’ll be taking Mr. Lennon to Scotland. Is that true?”

“That’s the plan, soon as he’s able to travel…”

“I can’t say when that will be. He certainly couldn’t cope with the drama of a commercial flight at this point.”

“That’s what I thought.” Paul tugged harshly at his lower lip, contemplating. “What if I could get a private plane? You would fly with us, all expenses would be covered. It would be quieter for him-”

“I’m not leaving the states.”

At the bar, John was sitting ramrod straight, his eyes sharp and fixed on the men across the room. Paul heaved a sigh. “Nothing’s been decided yet-”

“You’ve decided enough for me already, Paul. I worked too hard to get here. I’m not leaving.”

“John, I really-”

At John’s elbow, the phone jumped to life, making all three of them jump. Without thinking, John yanked it from the hook and held it to his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

Frozen in place, Paul watched as John listened, a garbled voice emanating through the earpiece. At the distance he was, Paul couldn’t make out who it was. Very few people had the cabin’s line… _Who could it be?_

John said nothing as the voice on the other end of the line continued. When he lifted his eyes to meet Paul’s, his face had gone deathly pale. So pale, in fact, that his eyes appeared black against his colorless skin.

“John… who is it?”

But John didn’t answer, his mouth hanging open as he shook his head in stunned denial. “No… No, it’s not over… please- _please_ don’t-”

John didn’t resist as Paul came forward and snatched the phone away, his hand falling limply into his lap. Paul leaned around him and shoved the phone to his own ear. “Hello? Who is this?”

“Paul.”

That voice, high and silky and familiar. It reminded Paul of spiderwebs, catching against his skin. Fighting a shudder, Paul clenched his teeth. “Yoko. How did you get this number?”

Instead of answering, she laughed lightly, her voice uneven and pitchy. “I’m going to tell them. I’m going to tell everyone if he doesn’t come back-”

“Tell them what?” But Paul had a sinking feeling that he already knew.

“That I kicked him out. Because he is… he is…” There was a long pause and Paul felt his breathing stall as she sought for the word.

“ _Homosexual_.”

Paul could hear the joy in her voice as she whispered it, could almost feel her laughter as if it was his own.

“I know about you and John. I know what you are. I know all of his secrets. I know his deepest fears, who he is beneath his skin…” The woman hummed against the phone before her voice came again, an intimate whisper against Paul’s ear. “I know yours too, Paul. He told me them, you know. Your biggest fears…”

 _John wouldn’t. John would never betray him like that, not with something so personal_ -

Paul closed his eyes and struggled to breath. Beside him, John had begun to tremble, his attention fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Paul waved his hand in front of John’s face, but the other man didn’t react. “What did you say to him, Yoko?”

.

_She was going to kill herself._

_She’d told him that in the beginning. He remembered her calm insistence, her determination that she would simply have to “give up everything” if she didn’t achieve fame. If her book didn’t succeed. If her art gallery didn’t open. If he didn’t support her._

_Once, when John had been visiting Cynthia and Julian, he’d received a call that Yoko was threatening suicide if he didn’t come at once. Immediately, he’d departed, leaving his son confused and poor Cynthia hurt even worse than he’d already hurt her. He’d only been gone a half hour from Yoko… and since that day, he hadn’t visited Cynthia or Julian again._

_Yoko always talked about it so calmly. Like leaving him in such a way was as simple as ordering more eggs for breakfast. Like abandoning him through death would mean nothing to her at all. Like suicide would be her only option if he ever left…_

_John felt himself jerk back from the word. But it was already too late._

_Suicide._

_Oh poor, poor Brian._

_Things might’ve been so different, could’ve been so, so different… but no. John was a selfish bastard, wasn’t he? And Brian had died because of it. John hadn’t been there for him, had abandoned him when Brian had needed him most. And so, Brian had done what Yoko so casually talked about. Though no one spoke about it, John knew that Brian had been alone and scared, tucked away in some dark, anonymous hotel room. All because John had been too caught up in himself to notice his pain…_

_No, John couldn’t let another person die because of him. Forgiving himself wasn’t an option, no, it never had been. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Yoko dying, especially if it was because she thought he’d abandoned her-_

_Abandoned. Just like Uncle George had abandoned him. And Julia and Stu. And Paul-_

_John felt someone gripping his shoulders, felt someone shaking him, but it was all so far away. At some point, his eyes had fallen closed, too heavy for him to reopen. Nearby, a voice was talking, no, shouting at him._

_“John!? John, look at me!”_

_She’d been terrible to him, he knew. She’d taken so much away, all of it under the guise of making him better, of teaching him how to earn love. And he’d believed her, had placed his life in her small, dainty hands without a second thought. Yoko knew what to do. She always had. She’d taken his life away, but it was for his own good… wasn’t it? She’d been teaching him how to make someone stay… so who was he to leave her, to abandon her? He’d already done that to poor, sweet Cynthia. He’d already abandoned his darling son, his precious Julian… he’d said such horrid things to him, trying to prove his loyalty to her, trying to show he didn’t care about them… he truly was no better than his own parents then-_

_He owed it to Yoko- he owed it to all of them-_

_What did she say? John, what did she say to you? Come on now-”_

_Yoko had lied so many times. Had wounded him so deeply and completely that he knew he couldn’t possibly hope to heal. But she’d told him truths too, had helped him search for his own… were they, perhaps, lies too? Was John the lie?_

_What was he supposed to do?_

_“Please, John-love, can you look at me? Please?"_

_John-love._

_Yoko had lied._

.

Awareness slowly returned to John’s eyes and Paul resisted the urge to drag him into his chest. Instead, he squeezed John’s bony shoulders through the robe. “There you are now-”

“Paul-”

“What did she say?”

John blinked, exhaustion plain on his face. “She’s going to kill herself. I can’t let her kill herself-”

“She’s not going to do that, John.”

Really, Paul wasn’t sure what the woman was capable of. When he’d seen John retreating into his own head, he’d angrily hung up the phone without bothering to say goodbye. Now, he was wishing that he’d kept her on the line. There really was no telling what she would do…

Paul felt a thrill of fear when he remembered her threat. _I’m going to tell them. I’m going to tell everyone._ What if she went to the media and followed through? What if she did? Would people believe her? If they did… what would it do to Linda? To the kids?

Sure, George and Ringo had given their blessing. But it was too soon, too early, and so very far from being on their terms… to have it come out in such a way, to be exposed in such a callous betrayal-

“Mr. McCartney… I think you should sit down.”

His head still spinning, Paul allowed Dr. Anderson to guide him onto the other bar stool, suddenly aware of his own hammering heartbeat. This wasn’t how he’d wanted for the world to find out… they’d see it as dirty, as Paul coming to New York and stealing John away for his own selfish purposes. They’d see it as him yanking John away from his wife, as Paul abandoning his own wife and children-

Hurrying, Paul fumbled a cigarette from his jeans, his fingers clammy and clumsy. He’d kicked the habit years earlier after the _Band on the Run_ scare. But with everything going on, well… it was steadying to have a ciggie once every now and then.

Paul’s thumb slipped uselessly on the lighter, unable to gain a flame for his trembling. Fortunately, Dr. Anderson noticed his struggle and took the lighter, holding the flame aloft while Paul took a heavy inhale to start it up. Unable to speak, Paul simply nodded in thanks, his mind drifting a million miles away.

Paul had turned John down in India when John had asked if they could go public with their relationship. Looking back, Paul wished now more than ever that he’d said yes… wished that he had swept John up and kissed him in front of every cameraman that they could find. It would’ve been on their terms, a united front again a world that would’ve likely chosen to burn their records for a second time.

It wouldn’t have been easy, no. But it would’ve been _theirs_.

And now, this woman was going to take them to the press, was going to air their relationship for the world to see… all while John was too sick to stand on his own and Paul had a family to think about, a family to _protect_. Linda, he knew, suspected that he and John were more than music partners. But he hadn’t wanted it go like this, hadn’t wanted her or anyone else to find out like this-

“Paul?”

Jumping at his name, Paul looked at John. “Y-Yeah?”

“You said you’d love me forever...”

Paul took a deep drag from the cigarette. “It’s true, I will.”

“Even if… Even if I choose to go back?”

“Would you- would you be happy if you went back to her, John?”

John just stared at him as Paul swirled his tongue around his mouth, his throat dry. He had to say it, even if it hurt. Hell, even if it _broke_ him.

“I want you to be happy and healthy. I _need_ to know that you'll be happy and healthy, Johnny. So if you want to go back, I won’t stop you. I only ask that I can see you a bit more, you know? To make sure… to make sure you’re okay, yeah? So if you want to go back, yes, I will still love you. Nothing could stop me from loving you. Love doesn’t just end like that, and I… I would rather you stayed with me, of course. But I won’t be angry with you if you go. Understand?”

There was a look of wonder on John’s face, his eyebrows arched almost into his hairline. All too soon, a crease of worry pulled them back down again. “Paul… I don’t want… I don’t want her to kill herself. I couldn’t stand it if she killed herself because of me. Like Brian-”

“Is that what she told you? That she’d kill herself if you didn’t come back?”

John nodded. “I don’t- Paul, I don’t _want_ to go back. I don’t think so anyway. I don’t know… But the walls- it was so dark there-”

“I’m sorry, just. Hold on a minute, please.”

John and Paul looked up to find Dr. Anderson leaning against the kitchen bar, his presence completely forgotten until that moment. The doctor shifted to lean a hip against the bar, a coffee cup tucked in his hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It might not be my place, but… did you say that she’s threatening suicide? If you don’t come back immediately?” Again, John nodded in the affirmative and Dr. Anderson continued. “Has she ever done something like this before? Ever told you she’d hurt herself or kill herself based on your actions?”

“Aye… she has. But-”

“And your… eating habits. Has she had any kind of opinion on that aspect of your life?”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Anderson shrugged. “Having you ever gotten in trouble for, say, eating something that you shouldn’t?”

Paul glanced at the doctor, confused by both his questions and his odd phrasing. But by the way Dr. Anderson was leaning forward, his mug gripped in a soft, white-knuckled hand, the bassist could tell that he was hearing something that wasn’t being said out loud. It was clear that the doctor was on alert.

John balked slightly, his cheeks a blotchy red. “I- well, I don’t-”

“Sweets, perhaps?”

Under the doctor’s expectant gaze, John fidgeted with his robe’s tie. “I… Sometimes I slip up.”


	21. Paul

The questions kept coming and coming and Paul could only stare, stunned, as John answered them all. _They lived separately within the Dakota? She filtered his phone calls?_ But those weren’t the only things that came out as Dr. Anderson continued, asking about their work, what their wedding was like, their life as a married couple. Oddly, John was willing to answer them all, genuinely curious it seemed, to know what Dr. Anderson was learning from the conversation.

Dr. Anderson narrowed his usually kind eyes. “Mr. Lennon… does any of this strike you as odd?”

“We don’t exactly live conventional lives, see…”

“That’s fair enough. But what about the fact that she introduced you to heroin, John? And her constant monitoring of you whereabouts in LA? Do you think that such actions in her part were truly for your best interest?” 

John fisted his hands in his robe, the frustration clear on his face. From where he sat at John’s side, Paul reached a laid a comforting hand on his friend’s back, rubbing lightly with his thumb. After a few moments, John managed to collect himself. “Not all of it is bad… she tries to do what’s best for us. She knows better, knows who I am, and-”

“John…” Paul leaned forward until he could catch John’s eyes. “She _stalked_ you. That’s why she knows who you are. Christ, she stood outside your house for _hours_ -”

“Because she knew we were meant to be together. The stars-”

“Sod the stars, John, _she knew she could use you_. Don’t you see what he’s saying, John? She knew what to say that would make you believe her-”

“No- no, she _didn’t_ \- it’s not true-”

“I’m sorry, John, but it is true _Bleeding_ … she knew when Cyn was coming home, didn’t she? And she asked you for- for _Cynthia’s bathrobe_? John… she knew what she was doing- she knew _exactly what to do_ …”

Paul swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, envisioning poor Cynthia walking into her own home to find this woman, a woman that John had previously displayed open distain for, sitting at Cynthia’s _own table_ wearing Cynthia’s _own bathrobe_. As he sat there beside John, Paul could feel his heart breaking for Cynthia all over again, felt his cheeks rush with embarrassment for her. She hadn’t deserved that… no one did. But especially not sweet _Cyn_.

She’d loved John before the world knew his name, before it cared about his voice and his songs. She’d loved him the way Paul had always loved him: before his money, before his cars and his houses, before his fame and his drug addiction too. Cynthia and Paul had loved him before he was someone. Yet somehow, Yoko had recognized him as an easy target, a man insecure enough and rich enough to give her complete control of his life in exchange for what she called love… and John… he’d been so hungry for acceptance. Especially after India-

Fucking _Hell_. It was sick. _She_ was sick.

Dr. Anderson stepped closer, a pained expression on his face. “What about your first meeting her, Mr. Lennon? What was that like?”

“It was at her art show… at the Indica…” John smiled, wistful. “I asked if I could hammer a nail in. It was one of her exhibits, you know.”

“What did she say?”

John’s smile suddenly dropped away. “She said no. Not unless I had five shillings. So I told her I’d give her five imaginary ones to hammer in an imaginary nail…”

“Did she not recognize you?” Dr. Anderson’s eyes flashed briefly to Paul before resettling on John’s bowed head. “I can’t imagine charging _John Lennon_ to do something…typically, you’re the one being paid to do things…”

John swallowed visibly, his tongue darting across his lips as he played restlessly with his IV tubing. “She acted like she didn’t know me. But she admitted later on that she did.”

“Ah. I see.”

Sudden rage crossed John’s face when he finally met Dr. Anderson’s eyes. “What _exactly_ do you see then, eh? You don’t know everything-”

“No, I don’t know everything, Mr. Lennon. But I _do_ know what you’ve told me. And from what you’ve told me-”

“Don’t say it. _Please_ don’t say it.”

Dr. Anderson sighed. “Mr. Lennon, I think it’s important to-”

John lifted his head, a certain lifelessly in his face as he met the doctor’s eyes. “I know. I know, alright? Happy, aren’t you?” He turned suddenly to Paul. “Are you happy now, Paul?”

“John, I am the _furthest thing_ from happy right now-”

“Me marriage was a fucking sham, alright? It is a fucking sham. So there. I’ve said it.”

“John-love-”

“I told you not to call me that!”

Paul recoiled, quickly collecting himself. “I didn’t mean… John, I’m not happy about this at all-”

“And why aren’t you, Paul? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“No, believe it or not-"

"Mr. Lennon.”

Again, their focus returned to the doctor. Deliberately, Dr. Anderson placed his empty mug into the sink. “I didn’t ask these questions to start an argument or to cause upset between you two. I ask these questions because I want you to see the truth… she has been manipulating you. By the sound of it, she been manipulating you for _years_. In knowing this… John, you must see that she is using a suicide threat as a guilt tactic. She knows that Brian’s death hurt you. She’s using it to control you.”

“No, she… what if she does? What if she does follow through with it?”

“I don’t know her mental state… but I have an associate in New York that I can call. He has a good relationship with the police…” Dr. Anderson smiled reassuringly at his patient, soothing John before he could slip into further despair. “I can ask them to perform a wellness check on her. I can inform them that I believe she is a danger to herself and that way, if she is seriously considering some form of self-harm, she can get the help that she needs. How does that sound?”

“They won’t arrest her will they? The police…”

“I’ll be honest with you, John… a welfare check would involve them searching her apartments. If they recover any illicit drugs…”

“They wouldn’t find anything, not now. We’ve been clean for years.”

But despite John’s vehement insistence that Yoko was clean, Paul could see the doubt behind his eyes. It was becoming clear that John hadn’t known his wife as well as he’d thought he did.

“Well, I just thought you should know. Just in case. Whether they find anything or not, they will be able to make sure she is safe from hurting herself.”

John bit his lips together, tugging on the IV a bit harder. When Paul reached to make him stop, John pulled his hand back, hurriedly dropping the IV before Paul could touch him. “Alright,” he whispered quietly. “I just don’t want her to be arrested… it would scare her, you know? We, uh… we lost a baby back in ’68, see, and it was the stress of it all, of the bust and getting taken in, and… I just don’t want her to get hurt or be afraid.”

Paul blinked, taken back. After everything she’d done to hurt him, he was still worried for her safety. Publicly, Paul knew that John Lennon would always be seen as the tough, I-don’t-give-a-damn asshole. It was safer to be that way. But behind closed doors, he knew that John’s soul was fragile, soft. John wanted to be gentle, he did. And though Paul wasn’t sure he’d ever understand, he knew that John cared about people and things far more deeply than he would ever let on.

Dr. Anderson nodded thoughtfully, considering John’s fears. “I can make a point of asking that female officers to be present. Would that help, do you think?”

“Aye, it might.”

The doctor nodded, still watching John intently. Almost a full minute had passed before he adjusted his glasses and stepped over to the IV. He began to check its flow as he spoke, his fingers deftly adjusting the half-fill bottle on the pole. “So if Yoko is safe and well… what will you do then, Mr. Lennon? You had said that you didn't want to go back…”

John held out his hand and watched as Dr. Anderson checked the needle, ensuring that it was still securely in place with all his fidgeting. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do…”

The young doctor flipped John’s hands over one at a time, checking both of the gauze wrappings. Satisfied that they were still clean, Dr. Anderson cleared his throat and looked at Paul over the top of John’s head. “You know, Mr. Lennon… sometimes distance can create clarity in a situation like this. Furthermore… would you consider speaking to a psychologist if given the chance?”

Before Dr. Anderson had even finished his sentence, John was already shaking his head firmly in the negative. “Not at the moment, no. I already know I’m mad. I don’t need anyone to tell me that. Not quite sure if I’m done screaming yet, though…”

“Well… what about getting some distance then? I myself can’t leave the States at the moment… but I do have a cousin who’d be willing to visit you. He’s a doctor too, a real dependable one, if not a bit gruff. I personally can’t understand a word that he says, even when he talks slowly.”

Failing to hide his curiosity, John shrugged. “And where is this cousin of yours?”

“Funny you should ask. He happens to be on vacation to his cottage right now. It’s in this little fishing town on the coast.” Dr. Anderson gave Paul a wink. “Little bitty town, perfect for hiding away. Out of the public eye, very cozy. He owns a sailboat that he keeps docked there… you enjoy the ocean, I’ve heard. Sailing and such…”

Paul couldn’t help himself. “What town is it then? Sounds like a nice place to visit. Especially if your cousin is there and wouldn’t mind showing us around.”

Dr. Anderson grinned broadly. “Why, I’m glad that you asked. Have you ever heard of Campbeltown, Scotland?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I am on family vacation, so it might be a few days until I update again! I haven't forgotten, I'm just without WiFi :)


	22. Paul

While Dr. Anderson retreated to the bedroom to make the call, Paul helped John into the bathroom. Even though he insisted that he could do it himself, Paul refused to let the other man put any weight whatsoever on his injured foot.

At the door, John stopped, placing his hand on the doorframe. “Can you… can you at least let me do this part?”

Noting the high, thin tone of John’s voice, Paul nodded and cautiously released his arm. Without further comment, he stepped out of the bathroom and around the corner. Just out of sight, but readily available should John need him.

After a few minutes had gone by, Paul heard John call out, his voice weak and halting. When he ducked around the corner, Paul found John standing across the room at the sink, his hands pressed hard on the counter’s edge . Hurrying, Paul strode over and slipped his arm around John’s waist once more, taking most of the sagging man’s weight. “You know I would’ve helped you to the sink…”

Instead of responding, John allowed Paul to support him as they made their way back out into the living room.

By the time Paul lowered him down onto the couch, John was shaking from fatigue, his eyes fluttering as he struggled to keep them open. Paul retrieved the blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around the other man, making sure that John’s IV wasn’t being pinched or pulled as he did. By the time the bassist stepped back, satisfied with his handiwork, John was sleeping soundly, his cheeks dusted a healthy shade of pink.

“Alright, it’s all been settled.” Dr. Anderson quietly re-entered the room, a wan but genuine smile on his face. “There will be two female officers present and they are headed there now. I cautioned them to use discretion. My contact said that he would call me with an update in the morning.”

Feeling heavy, Paul nodded and looked down at John. “Should I wake him? Try and get him to eat something?”

“After I leave perhaps.” Dr. Anderson moved to stand in front of John, his face betraying his worry. “I can also call the rehab center in Syracuse in the morning to get an update on Mr. Starkey, if you like.”

Paul blinked, taken back. “I… you don’t have to do that. I can-”

Dr. Anderson smiled and held up a hand. “I know you can, Paul. But you’ve got your hands full here, and I want to help in any way that I can.”

“That’s very kind of you, Joel.”

Paul swallowed and pressed a hand to his temple. A twinge of a headache was beginning to settle behind his eyes. “Tell me… do you really think that taking John to Scotland is the best idea? He might… he might not ever be able to come back to the states…”

“Ah, yes. His green card and that mess.”

“Yes, that. I was worried…”

Dr. Anderson considered for a moment. “I don’t want to take any more of his autonomy from him. Forcing him to do anything would only hurt him worse than he’s already been hurt. He needs time to evaluate and make his own decisions about his own health and wellbeing.”

Paul nodded and glanced down at John’s sleeping form, propped up against the back of the couch. “But what if he can’t? Sometimes he just… it’s like he leaves. Like he just retreats into his own head and I can’t reach him.”

Understanding, Dr. Anderson nodded. “It’s a defense mechanism. Like I said before, I’m not an expert in the field. But I’ve seen similar symptoms in other trauma survivors. John has held everything inside of himself for years, putting on a front in order to get by. Now, the walls he’d put up are beginning to fracture. It doesn’t mean that he can’t make decisions, it just means that he needs time. There will be explosions and quiet spells, times when he retreats from the world. He might experience flashbacks and bouts of fear and panic. But you must remember that these are normal and expected. The key to his recovery is that he is handled with understanding and gentleness.”

Paul pulled his eyes away from John and fixed them on the floor. At his side, he felt Dr. Anderson shift his feet. “George said that there was an incident…”

The memory of the shattered dishware, of John’s stunned face, the blatant horror in his eyes… Paul felt himself flinch. “Aye. There was.”

Dr. Anderson nodded. “I understand that there are unresolved hurts between you, hurts that need to be acknowledged and put to rest. But right now, Paul, he can’t handle it. The best things for him right now are going to be the simple things.”

“What to do mean by ‘simple things’?”

The doctor grinned. “You love him. That’s simple enough. So show him. Tell him all the time. Make it a reality for him. You’ll be amazed at how quickly he’ll respond once he believes that. Don’t leave any room for him to doubt how you feel.” Dr. Anderson paused, considering. “Actually… is there anyone else he could talk to maybe? The more support he has, the better.”

“He asked to speak to his aunt recently…”

“Is there a problem with that?”

Paul tugged harshly at his lip. “She can be… confrontational.”

“But he asked specifically to speak to her?”

“That’s right. I couldn’t believe it, honestly.”

Dr. Anderson studied John’s sleeping form and pushed his glasses higher onto his nose. “After I leave for the evening, you might go ahead and give her a call. Have you spoken to her since John left the Dakota?”

“No.”

The doctor nodded slowly. “You might want to warn her ahead of time about his mental state then. I would certainly let him talk to her though, especially if he’s asking for her.”

Paul ducked his head in agreement. “I’ll call her tonight then. Right after I update Linda.”

~o0o~

After Dr. Anderson had disconnected John’s IV and departed for the night, Paul silently retreated into the bedroom. He knew that he would have to wake John sooner rather than later, but it wouldn’t hurt to allow him a few more minutes. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Paul took up the phone and dialed the familiar number.

“Hello? Paul?”

“Hello, Lin. I’ve just seen off the doctor for the day…”

“How is he doing?”

Before Paul could answer, he detected the sound of voices in the background. “He’s doing alright, considering. Do you have guests over, Linda?”

Paul heard the smile in her voice as she answered. “Actually, I do have a couple guests here. They were just coming by to see if I’d heard from you, actually.”

“Oh? Who is… Lin? Linda?”

There was a shuffle over the line as the phone changed hands. A moment later, a new voice came over the line, just as sweet and gentle as Paul had ever heard it. “Hello, Paul? How’s- how’s John?”

Paul couldn’t hold back his sigh. “Hello, Cyn. I’ll be honest… he’s not as good as I’d hoped he’d be.”

Paul heard Cynthia clear her throat and talk to someone in the background. After a few moments, her voice returned. “Is it all true then? The news and what May said?”

“From what I have heard, yes. Or, what the staff members have been saying is true, anyway. And May has a contact inside, so whatever she’s found out-”

A choking sound came over the phone and Paul realized suddenly that Cynthia was crying, her breathing harsh. Guilt washed over Paul and he cursed himself. “Christ, I’m sorry, Cynthia. I didn’t meant to upset you. John’s doing far better than he was, really. It just hasn’t been easy for him, that’s all.”

_It hasn’t been easy on either of us._

Paul identified the calming voice of Linda in the background, her voice briefly overridden by that of a younger male’s. Paul cocked his head, trying to decipher the muffled words, when Cynthia spoke again. “No, no, it’s alright. I needed the truth. I needed to hear it from you. Can you just tell me if… Paul, he’s not going to die, is he? The news-”

“He’s not going to die, Cynthia,” Paul stated firmly, a rush of determination flooding his chest. “He’s not going to die, he’s just a bit rough at the moment, that’s all.” _What was the media saying?_

Over the line, Cynthia drew a shaky breathe. “It just sounds so terrible, what they’re saying... I’m so glad you’re with him, Paul. It means so much to him, you being there. I know it does. No one else would do, you know.”

Paul felt his throat constrict and he struggled to keep his voice light. “Cynthia, I don’t know if he’s up for talking right now, but maybe in a bit I could-”

“No, no, that’s alright.” Cynthia audibly sat back from the phone, a bit of her resolve returning as she spoke. “Thank you, but I doubt he’ll want to be hearing from me right now, y’know? Actually, I’d feel better if he didn’t know we spoke at all.”

Taken back, Paul blinked at the snow-covered window sill. “Why not? I’m sure it would help him, knowing that you checked in. He would probably-”

“I’m so sorry, Paul, but I just don’t think it would help him. I’m sorry, just… just keep Jules and I updated, yeah? The boy’s likely to drive me mad with badgering me to speak to you and John.”

_Julian_. So that was who the angry voice in the background belonged to. “I can certainly do that, Cyn. I’d be more than happy to speak to him, but I’ve still to call Mimi before we settle down for the night…”

“She’ll be happy to hear from you, Paul. I try to keep her updated with what I hear, but it’s all been so crazy, you see. She’s been a bit more cool than usual, what with being worried for poor John. She might be nasty at first, but just remember that she loves you. Whenever she asks about John, she’s always got a comment or another about you as well. You know how Mimi is.”

A soft laugh escaped Paul and he felt some of the weight leave his shoulders. “I’ll admit, I’ve put of calling her. But John asked to talk to her, so I reckon it’s time. He actually told me that he missed her…”

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Is it true you’re bringing John to Scotland? May had mentioned it briefly last time we spoke…”

“I don’t know yet. Dr. Anderson has a relative there that is willing to take over John’s care, a relative that he seems to trust.”

There was a pause over the line. “Do you trust him, Paul? This Dr. Anderson, I mean. Is he good to John?”

Paul couldn’t help but smile. Even after all the pain John had caused her, Cynthia and her heart of gold still cared so deeply for him. “From what I’ve seen, he’s been fantastic. He took the time to explain what’s happened to John and what he’s going to need in order to move forward. I’m not sure that I understand it all myself, but he certainly knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh. Then I’m glad for that.”

Another awkward pause fell between them and Paul shifted his weight, uncertain. Would John want Cynthia to know what had happened to him? What he’d been through? Some people would see it as emasculating, having been… well, having been…

Paul flinched away from the truth, from the things John had told him and Dr. Anderson just earlier that evening. John had been hurt, he’d been _manipulated_ and _abused_. And Paul hadn’t done anything to stop it… Christ, he’d been the one that had convinced John to go back to her-

“Don’t do that. It’s not your fault, Paul.”

At the sound of Cynthia’s voice, tremulous through the phone, Paul pulled himself back from the precipice once again. “I know… I know. Just feels like it though. I should’ve been there.”

Cynthia hummed and Paul heard a ruffling sound, like she might be dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “He acts like he can handle things, John does, but he needs to be told, Paul. He needs to be told it’s okay to be hurt. To be held.”

“Why won’t you talk to him, Cyn? Dr. Anderson says that the more people he has to support him the better. I know he’d love to hear from you.”

“I just… I don’t think I can right now. It’s selfish, I know, but I don’t think I could stand to hear his voice.”

Paul sighed. “I understand.”

“And Paul?”

“Hm?”

“You do know that there’s no one else he needs more than you, right?”

Paul blinked quickly, his headache heightening slightly. He felt oddly lightheaded. “I… May said something similar. I’m not sure that I-”

“Do you remember Paris?”

Just hearing the word leaving Cynthia’s mouth, Paul felt as if he were falling through space and time: _the rain coming down, John taking his hand and racing through it, both of them laughing like a pair of maniacs. Heaven on Earth-_

Paul felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs. “Yes, yes, of course I remember. Paris, yes. Why?”

“He could’ve taken anyone on that trip, Paul. I even asked if I could go, but he said no. He wanted to go with _you_. There was no one but _you_. Paul, some people might say that I-”

“Cynthia, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, Paul. We both know that you aren’t. Furthermore, I don’t want you to be sorry-”

“Cyn, please, I really-”

“Loving someone isn’t something to be sorry over, Paul. You of all people should know that. I love him and I always will. At one time, I know that he loved me too. But through it all, there was always you. So don’t be sorry. Not for any of it. Now, before I lose myself again, please go call Mimi. She’s worried sick and I know she’ll insist on talking to him.”

Before Paul could stutter a response, there was a shuffle and Linda was back on the line. “Poor Cyn’s had a time with it all, Paul. I really don’t know how she’s held everything together this long-”

Digging his fingertips into his eyes, Paul fought to steady himself. Cynthia knew. How long had she known? Had they really been so obvious, even back then? A roil of nausea twisted Paul’s gut and he planted his feet more firmly on the floor. The last thing that he needed was to get sick in the bedroom-

“Paul? Paul, are you there?”

“I- yes. Yes, I’m here. Linda, I have to- I have to tell you something.”

“I know you do.”

“You- you do?” _Christ, have we really been that obvious?_

Linda laughed on the other end of the line. “Of course I do. You’re going to tell me goodnight because you still have to call Mimi. You know she goes to bed before the rest of us, so you’d better get on with it, honey. I’ve got Cynthia and Julian here and I’d hate to keep them waiting for supper.”

“Linda, please, I really think-”

“I love you, Paul. The kids say that they love you too, alright?”

A dull ache emanated from Paul’s temple and he struggled to swallow. “Linda…”

The blonde sighed quietly over the line and Paul imagined that she was right there, her endlessly understanding eyes meeting his from across the room. “We can talk later, babe. When things settle down, okay?”

Paul took a breath and felt his heart stutter against his ribs. “I love you, Linda.”

“And I love you, James Paul. Now. Go call Mimi before she calls poor Cynthia and I again. She’s been waiting to hear from you, and I’m sure she’s got plenty to say about you taking so long to call her.”

“I… okay. I’ll call her right now.”

“Okay. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, lovely Linda.”

As Paul hung up the phone, he swore that he could feel her gentle smile, all the way from across the cold ocean between them.


	23. Paul/John

Paul dialed the number slowly, half-hoping that Mimi might already have retired for the night. But as Paul’s luck was wont to go, she picked up on the first ring. Almost like someone had told her he’d be calling that evening. “Hello?”

Gathering himself, Paul answered. “Hello, Mimi. How have you been?”

Silence.

After several seconds had passed, Paul spoke again. “Uh… Mimi? Are you-”

“Mr. McCartney. What a pleasure to _finally_ hear from you.”

 _Fuck._ “Mimi, I-”

“Paul, if you aren’t preparing to give me a good reason for having not called sooner, then let’s on to the next part, please. Where is John? How bad off is he? Let me speak to him.”

Glancing at the bedroom door, Paul could barely make out the top of John’s head where he was still on the couch. “He’s asleep at the moment-”

“Good. Then he won’t be left waiting while I give you the lashing that you deserve, Paul McCartney. Where have your wits gone, young man? How _is_ he? I’ve been left with nothing but the bloody news and you haven’t bothered to so much as ring? The _nerve_ you have-”

“ _Please_ , Mimi… I need your help.” Upon hanging up with Linda, an idea had occurred to Paul. And though it was risky and might not work, Paul was growing desperate…

Mimi, sensing Paul distress, paused in her tirade. “ _You_ need _my_ help? It’s more likely you’ll need the help of _God_ by the time I’ve-”

“Yes, I dearly do need your help. But you have to promise not to upset him too much, yeah? He’s not been-”

“What did that little poisoned dwarf do to him?”

“ _Mimi!_ ”

“Don’t ‘Mimi’ me, Paul! You’ve left me with only the bleeding telly to listen to and as far as I’ve heard… why, as far as I’ve heard, John’s…” Mimi cleared her throat hurriedly, collecting herself. “Paul… what’s happened to my boy? Is my John as bad as they say?”

The abrupt change in Mimi’s tone threw Paul for a moment. “I-I don’t know what they’re saying… but he’s not dying or anything like that. Like I told Cynthia, he’s just a bit hurt right now. He’ll be alright after some rest and care. He’s got a good doctor looking after him-”

“And you? How are you holding up?”

And then, as if his strings had been cut, the ever self-aware Paul McCartney started to come apart.

“It’s… I’m fine. Everything is fine-”

“ _Paul_.”

It took exactly two heartbeats for the tears to flood Paul’s aching eyes. “Christ, Mimi, I just want to help him. I just want to make it _better_ , and I can’t- I _can’t_ and I don’t know what to _do_ -”

“Steady on, lad,” the woman soothed, her voice oddly soft. “Calm yourself now. Getting into a panic helps no one.”

“I’m sorry, I… I think I’m just tired, tha’s all. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sure that you are. Now, tell me what’s happened and how I can help you.”

Faltering intermittently, Paul hurriedly told Mimi about John’s state, how he was prone to attacks of fear and periods of strange withdrawal. Though Paul felt badly about divulging John’s personal secrets so freely, he reckoned that no one knew John as well as Mimi did. And of all the people who would know John’s deepest wounds… certainly Mimi would understand and know what he needed.

When Paul had finished, Mimi hummed over the line. “Alright then.”

“I… ‘alright then’?”

“Alright then. Now we have an idea of what to do don’t we?”

Paul chose to ignore the crack in the older woman’s voice, the way she forced steadiness into each deliberate sentence. It was clear to Paul that what had happened to her nephew had upset Mimi deeply. But he also knew that Mary ‘Mimi’ Smith was not a woman to be dogged by such tragedies and woes. She was a nurse after all. It was her calling to bring peace to others in times of pain. It didn’t matter if the pain was physical or emotional. It was her responsibility to soothe it away.

“Go and warm up some soup, Paul. Enough for yourself too- don’t bother arguing with me. Likely you’ve worked yourself into a state and forgotten to eat, haven’t you? That’s what I thought. Silly fool… anyway, once you’ve got it warmed up, wake John and sit him down at the bar. Have him answer the phone when I call in ten minutes. Understand?”

Feeling distant, Paul nodded simply before he remembered that she couldn’t see him. “Aye, Mrs. Sm- _Mimi_. I’ll do that.”

“If you or John don’t pick up when I call, I’ll assume you’ve allowed your daft self to pass out from hunger and exhaustion. And Paul, I _do not_ feel like calling on your Dr. Anderson and having him drive all the way there because you couldn’t keep yourself fed and rested. Understood?”

“Yes, Mimi.”

Mimi hummed again. “Good enough. Now go on. I’ll be calling in a bit. Make sure he has soup in front of him when I do.”

A dull click told Paul that she’d hung up.

Relieved to finally have a sense of direction, Paul hauled himself up onto his feet and made his way out into the kitchen. Briefly, he peered over the back of the couch to find John still nestled in the blanket, only visible from his nose up. With his hair all fluffed, he more closely resembled a scrawny baby bird than an adult man. The thought made Paul smile as he made his way into the kitchen area.

Pulling George’s leftover soup from the fridge, Paul set it on the stove top and lit the burner before taking two bowls from the cupboard. As Paul set them on the bar, he made a mental note to call on Alice. After John’s episode, they were woefully short on dishware…

Paul closed the cupboard quickly and pushed the incident to the back of his mind.

A few minutes later, Paul ladled the soap into John’s bowl and watched the steam rise as he placed it on the bar. Then, per Mimi’s orders, he dutifully made himself a matching bowl. Flicking his wrist, Paul consulted the two watches that he always wore. Three minutes to spare.

Paul ambled to the couch and gazed down at his former bandmate. John had sank down against the couch’s plush cushions, his head tilted back as he snored. Unable to help himself, Paul smiled at the scene.

It was a familiar sight, John sleeping soundly. Paul had watched over a sleeping John many times over the years. Many times had he watched his lover’s naked chest rise and fall and hitch as he dreamed, his skin silvery under pale moonlight. Such moments, Paul knew, were the only ones when John didn’t have a mask in place.

Paul reached out and trailed a fingertip down John’s face, smiling when the other man’s brow crinkled. Slowly, John blinked awake. “Paul…”

“I have a surprise for you, Johnny.”

Honey-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A… surprise?”

“Aye, a surprise. But you’ve got to go to the bar to get it.”

“Can’t you… bring it here?”

“Afraid not, son.”

Sighing, John pushed himself onto his feet, ignoring Paul’s offered hand. “Don’t see why you can’t bring it over here. Whatever it is.”

As he followed John toward the counter, staying close should the ill man need his aid, Paul checked his watch. One minute to go. Stepping forward, Paul tugged the chair closest to the wall. “Go on and take a seat-”

John stared down at the soup, wobbling on his feet. “Paul, I don’t-”

“All I’m asking is that you try. Can you just try for me, please? We don’t want you to end up in the hospital.”

Still hesitant, John sat down at the offered bar stool, his posture stiff beneath the blanket, his fists clenched tightly in his lap. Slipping a spoon into John’s bowl, Paul pushed down the urge to take those hands between his own and rub the tightness from the white-knuckled fingers. Just as Paul moved over and took his own seat at the bar, the phone at John’s side rang.

.

Didn’t he understand?

_John gazed down into the bowl, his mouth rapidly filling with saliva. Quickly, he forced himself to look away._

_Deep inside, somewhere near his hollow center, John felt his stomach roil, angry and loose and jittering. His heart jerked violently in his throat, old fears rising up. Frustrated, John felt his eyes begin to prickle._ Why was it so upsetting to have food placed in front of him? Worse, why couldn’t Paul understand?

 _At his side, he felt Paul shift in his seat, felt his eyes trained steadily on the side of John’s own_ _face. He was waiting, of course. Waiting for John to take up the spoon, to take a bite like everything was fine… But no matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t make his fingers open._

_The phone beside him released a burst of noise and John startled, a strange hiccup leaving him as he looked over at the offending object. At his back, Paul cleared his throat. “You should maybe answer that…”_

_John_ _wanted to do no such thing. Last time, it had been her…_

_“This is your surprise, John. Go ‘head. Answer it.”_

_Somehow, John forced his hand to open and he lifted his arm. Feeling as if he were moving in molasses-thickened air, John took the phone from the cradle and held it to his_ _ear. His mouth, just clogged with spit a moment earlier, had gone bone-dry. “H-Hello,” he managed to croak._

_“Hello, John? John is that you?”_

_A thousand moments dashed through John’s mind, each one more of a feeling or a sense than an actual memory: the feeling of a cold compress_ _during an ill. A strict voice turned to honey when the fever spiked. The smell of clean linens and stale flowery perfume._

_In the span of a second, John remembered a dozen scuffed knees, heard a hundred long-suffering complaints about his unruly behavior, felt that rare but treasured hug she’d occasionally give him after a particularly nasty day._

_And John let his shoulders fall, remembering all the times he’d crept up to her, his face bared to the older woman, loathe to tell her he was hurt but knowing that she already knew. It was true, she hadn’t been the_ _most loving of guardians. But she’d always known him, had always been there when everyone else had left him to the wind._

_“Mimi, it hurts,” he whispered, praying that she could actually hear him. “All of it hurts. So much…”_

_“I know it does. I know it does…”_

_“I don’t know what to do to fix it. I don’t know what to do-”_

_“I’ll help you, John. Do you want me to help you?”_

_For a moment, John sat still,_ _old lyrics playing on a loop in his head._ Help! I need somebody, help! Not just-

_Exhausted, John hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mimi. I’m sorry I-”_

_“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Not in this, at least…” There was a soft shuffling on Mimi’s end before she spoke again. “Has Paul made you soup, John?”_

_At the mention of the soup, John felt his stomach twist. A fine layer of sweat broke out on the back of his neck. “Yes. Yes, he has.”_

_Mimi hummed and John heard the telltale clink of metal against porcelain. “Well, I’ve my own bowl here. It’s getting cold though…”_

_“Why’s that?”_

_“… I’m a bit lonely, see. I’m not at all fond of eating alone and I was hoping you would eat with me tonight, John.”_

_Staring down into his bowl, John swallowed. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can. Makes me feel sick.”_

_“Eating does?”_

_“Aye.”_

_There was a long pause. “Are you sure it’s the eating that’s making you sick? Are you sure it’s not your head that’s doing you in?”_

_Before John could respond or think too heavily on her words, Mimi cleared her throat. “Let’s try it, shall we? Do you have your spoon, John?”_

_Wide-eyed but compliant under her insistence, John took the spoon from the edge of his bowl. “I have it.”_

_“Alright. I have mine too. What kind of soup did Paul make you?”_

_John blinked down into the bowl, stirring it with his spoon. “Vegetable, I think. No meat in it though. Paul’s a vegetarian.”_

_“Oh, he is? Can you tell me… does Paul have his spoon too?”_

_Turning his head, John found that Paul was already watching him. Dark circles painted the bags beneath the other man’s eyes and John felt a sudden wave of protectiveness wash over him. Pulling back from the phone, John whispered loudly. “Aunt Mimi says you should pick up your spoon, Paulie.”_

_Nodding mechanically, Paul took up his own spoon, a comically sleepy look on his face. “I have it. Can you tell her I have it?”_

_John leaned into the phone once more. “Paul has his spoon.”_

_“Wonderful,” Mimi answered, a pleased tone in her voice. “Alright, John. I need you to set a good example for him. Can you do that? He’s terrible at taking care of himself, you know.”_

_John felt himself smile._ _“Oh, I know it.”_

_“Go on then and take a bit of soup. Make sure Paul does too. I’m having stew myself. Have you taken a bite yet, John?”_

_Eager to please, John carefully lifted the spoon to his mouth. Though he felt childish with having Mimi instruct himself and Paul, it felt good. It felt safe, like he wasn’t doing something terribly wrong by eating. The soup certainly wasn’t one that would fit his and Yoko’s diet… but if_ _Mimi said it was okay, then it couldn’t be too bad for him. Cautiously, as if the soup might bite back, he slipped the spoon between his lips._

 _Warmth flooded John’s senses and a certain pressure rose in his temples, an odd rush akin to that of a nicotine high. A bit of broth trailed_ _down his chin and he was quick to knuckle it away. Mimi might not be physically present, but John knew that she hated nothing more than sloppy eating. Hurrying, John chewed the vegetables twice before swallowing them down, the weight of that single spoonful sitting like a twenty pound weight in his empty stomach._

_“How is your soup, John? Does it taste good?”_

_The taste of soup, made by George’s careful_ _hand and reheated by Paul’s, honestly made John want to cry. Instead, he forced himself to be steady. “It’s good. It’s really good, Mimi.”_

_“Did Paul eat his? You’ll have to make sure that he does. He looks up to you, you know.”_

_John felt his chest vibrate with a quiet laugh and Paul gave him an owlish look. “He doesn’t at all-”_

_“Oh but he does, Johnny. Perhaps not_ up _to_ _you anymore, but he certainly_ looks _to you.”  
_

_Lifting another spoonful of soup, John hummed. “He has to do that, I reckon. How else would he see me?”_

_Over the line, Mimi sighed. “You know very well what I mean. Anyway, is Paul eating his soup?”_

_John checked with the man at his side. “He’s eating. Slowly, but he is.”_

_“Good. Are you ready for another bite? I tell you, this stew that I have. It has these bits of…”_

_Before John knew it, his bowl was empty and he was laughing with Mimi, discussing his Scottish cousins and the skirt she’d recently ruined in the wash. It was_ _rare for Mimi to let go, to laugh with him over silly things like staining one’s laundry. Speaking to her felt like coming home after a particularly hard schoolyard tussle and John felt warm down to his core, felt like the hole at his center had shrunk, even if it was only by a little bit._

 _At his side, Paul had finished his bowl and had slumped forward on his own folded arms. John gazed down at him as he spoke with Mimi, taking in the scruff forming along Paul’s jaw._ _Paul had been obsessive about shaving in the earlier days. At one time, he’d even bathed and shaved twice a day-_

_“How do you feel, John?”_

_There was an undertone of happiness in Mimi’s voice, something that she normally hid beneath several layers of salt and vinegar. Relief washed over John when he shifted his seat. Only a faint echo of anxiety wound through his stomach, but he quickly pushed it away. After_ _all, if Mimi said it was okay to eat, then it had to be true. “I feel fine. A bit better actually. Paul’s finished his too. He’s fallen asleep.”_

_“I’m not surprised. Your little friend never did know when to sit still and rest.”_

_A comfortable silence fell over them and John soaked it in,_ _the unfamiliar feeling of fullness both in body and spirit. John smiled down at Paul’s sleeping form. It was a familiar thing to John, to watch Paul sleep. One of John’s favorite things was the way sunlight played across Paul’s face as he slept, casting his relaxed features in a creamy, golden-glow. No matter what he was doing, Paul always looked like a cathedral painting-_

_“John?”_

_Pulled back from his reverie, John spoke into the phone. “Yes, Mimi?”  
_

_“I think it’s time I turned in. Make sure you wake Paul and have him to bed, yes?”_

_“Oh. Of course.”_

_Seeming to sense John’s hesitation, Mimi pressed on. “Actually, I’d like to speak to him. I’ve a question about security.”_

_“Mimi, no one’s going-”_

_“I’d rather be certain. Go on and wake him. Oh, and John?”_

_“Yes, Mimi?”_

_“…I love you.”_

_For several seconds, John could only stare at the far wall, trying to process Mimi’s words. Maybe he’d misheard. “You… broke up…”_

_“I said that I love you. And I want you, no matter what, lad. Now, don’t dwell or fuss. Wake Paul.”  
_

_“I- I love you too, Mimi. I love you. I love you, too.”_

_He could hear the smile tucked away in her voice. “I know that you do,_ _Johnny. Don’t you ever forget that I love you too. You daft boy, you. How silly of you to think yourself unloved… perhaps it’s my own fault, isn’t it? No matter. I love you… I certainly know that Paul McCartney does. Speaking of whom- is he awake yet?”_

_Unable to speak, John reached over and roughly shook Paul awake. The poor man started so roughly that he almost fell out of his chair. Mumbling a quiet goodbye, John pressed the phone into the other man’s hand, his heart singing with a new note._

.

Paul scrambled to take the phone from John, has hands tingly from where he’d been asleep on his arms. “Aye, Mimi? Mimi are you there?”

“You sound as you’ve been asleep, Mr. McCartney. Did you fall asleep?”

“I- I did, I just-”

“Get John and yourself to bed then. He’s finished his soup, no thanks to you, and he needs to be warm now. Laid down and kept calm, so it settles. We can’t have him getting upset and losing it now, can we?”

“No, no, we don’t want that. Thank you for eating with him, Mimi. It was a good idea and I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of trying it.”

Mimi scoffed loudly. “Don’t be silly, Paul. Anyone can rattle a spoon around in a bowl.”

Paul turned himself away from John, whispering lowly into the phone. “You mean… you didn’t actually-”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. It’s past 2 in the morning here and I haven’t made stew since he was a wee lad anyway. It did the job well enough though, didn’t it?”

Paul stared at the wall, a thin cough of laughter escaping him. “How crafty of you.”

Mimi hummed quietly, trying not to sound too pleased with herself. “I should think so. A stubborn boy like him kept me on my toes after all. Had to be creative, you know. Any road, I’ll be headed to bed now, if that’s all.”

“Oh, right. I… thank you, Mimi. I don’t know what I’d do-”

“There’s been quite enough of that for one night, wouldn’t you say? We needn’t anymore fussing then.”

“No, of course not.”

“And Paul?”

“Huh?”

“I love you too. You’ll be just fine for him, I imagine. Just fine.”

Paul swallowed thickly, taken back for the second time in one evening. “I, uh… Thank you. And I love you too, Mimi.”

“I should hope so. Good night then.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite discovery above all of the others was finding out that Mimi Smith referred to Yoko Ono as “that poisoned dwarf.”


	24. Paul/John

John went down easily, not once complaining as Paul dotingly tucked the covers beneath his chin. He almost appeared to be drugged, lethargic as he smiled serenely up at Paul. It was no wonder, Paul realized as he returned John’s peaceful grin. Eating such a heavy meal after having so little for so long would certainly put a deprived body to work. Mimi was right. It was best to get John all settled down and cozy.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Paul watched as John fell asleep, humming a tune he’d dreamed up the night prior. Really, Paul wanted more than anything to brush his fingers through John’s auburn curls, the ones splayed out like a halo in the lamp’s weak light. Instead, he kept his hands to himself, remembering John’s new aversion to touch.

 _What could’ve brought that on?_ Paul wondered as he gazed down at his former bandmate. He knew that John hated being touched by strangers, but now… now he even shrank back from Paul…

There would be time to figure that out, he reckoned. If John wanted to tell him, then he would when he felt like it.

Pushing the worry to back of his mind, Paul felt a swell of pride rise in his chest as he reviewed the day. It was hard to believe that George and Ringo had left just that morning, bound for the rehab facility in Syracuse. It had only been earlier that Yoko had called and wreaked her havoc, that Dr. Anderson had made his own call and asked that a welfare check be conducted on the disturbed woman. Just a few minutes prior, Mimi had helped John eat his first full meal since… well, Paul wasn’t sure how long.

Overwhelmed, Paul risked reaching out and ran his finger down the outline of John’s sheet-shrouded arm. So much had happened in a _single day._ Although they’d run the touring gauntlet once upon a time, Paul knew that it had been a difficult day for his former bandmate. It had been a day full of trials and upset… yet somehow, John had handled it all reasonably well. Though such a thing might’ve seemed silly to some, Paul was genuinely proud of him.

Standing slowly so as to not disturb John, Paul made his way to the doorway before looking back. He would’ve liked to have shared the bed, but he knew that it would be best if he didn’t. After the day they’d had, Paul wanted to hold him, wanted to kiss John and pet him and whisper sweet things. But though John hadn’t explicitly said anything, it was clear that he didn’t want to be coddled. So Paul retreated to the living room, content enough with stretching out on the couch.

Stripping down, Paul wrapped himself in the blanket that John had left at the bar, periodically pressing it to his face as he took his and John’s bowls to the sink. John’s familiar scent of bergamot, citrus and vanilla washed over him with every breath and, pressing a hand to the bar’s edge, Paul closed his eyes. A feeling of peace came over him as he allowed his senses to open: _A full belly, warming him from the inside out. A heavy, John-scented blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Snow falling outside their secret cabin hideaway. John himself snoring softly in the bedroom…_

_Home._

Keeping the blanket pressed to his face, Paul settled down on the couch, curling up until he was completely surrounded by the smell of John. Within seconds, sleep closed over his head, leaving him to float in a star speckled sky.

Outside, the snow began to fall thick and heavy among the trees.

~o0o~

_The little girl beckoned to him, her fingers wiggling like halved earthworms. “Come along then, Johnny-Johnny-Johnny. Come along, let’s see what’s to be, won’t you come and go, come and go, come and go with me?”_

_John watched as the girl danced away, caterpillars flying from her skirts and scuttling in every direction. Her eyes were kaleidoscopes, but not of the trustworthy variety: unlike Paul’s eyes, hers had no rhythm, no pattern, no purpose or rhyme. When she reached to take his hand, he withdrew._

_Alice frowned. “Don’t you miss Wonderland, friend? Don’t you want to tempt and eat oysters again?”_

_Stumbling backward, John felt the wall at his back. “I’m not- I’m not-”_

_The little girl grinned, her mouth broader than that of the Cheshire Cat and madder still. Hers was a mouth filled with more teeth too, all of them razor-sharp. “Oh, Walrus, I wish you had seen, wish you’d stopped at the start! But you jumped in anyway and married that cold Queen of Hearts!”_

_John felt something behind his heel and he bent, feverishly clawing at the door near the floor. But he knew even as his nails tore away, ineffective against the thousand doors there, that it was useless anyway. There was no way out of Wonderland. He was trapped._

_Alice came closer, standing over him at last. “Ah, little blackbird in a cage, you could be singing but you’re dead! For that cold queen up in her tower called out ‘off with his head!’”_

_“This isn’t real- this isn’t real- she wouldn’t-”_

_But Alice only laughed, her eyes glittering with diamond-fractured light. “Of course not, don’t be silly, nothing is real here. And as so, don’t you know, you have nothing to fear?”_

_John looked away from her and the ground below changed. A moment later, his blooded fingertips were brushing through white petals, the scent of roses wafting up and up and up. “Ah!” Alice screamed, “These roses are white! Have them painted red before she comes home tonight!”_

_Though it made no sense, John found himself clawing through the petals, hurrying them through his red-stained fingers. Above, Alice laughed and John felt a despair like no other flood through him, so intense and breathtaking that he crushed handfuls of rose petals in his bleeding hands, tilted his head back and-_

_“PAUL! PAUL, HELP! PAUL-”_

_But Alice continued to laugh, even when his voice grew hoarse. “Didn’t you say nothing is real? So neither is Paul, and his love that you feel.”_

_“No-”_

_“Yes!”_

_John scrambled through the petals, his knees sliding around, the movement throwing up the sickening smell of roses and iron in his wake. Helplessly, he sobbed into his hands by the two inch tall door, curling up as he cried._

_“Paul- Paul, please- please, I’m so sorry-”_

.

The sound of a weak cry jolted Paul awake, the bassist vaulting upright from where he’d been sleeping on the couch in the living room. Struggling to get his bearings, he hurriedly kicked himself free of the blanket and raced to the bedroom.

Not yet fully awake, Paul made his way to the bedside and flipped on the lamp. Fumbling, he quickly gathering John up against himself without a second thought, nearly falling off of the bed in his haste. John was tense in his arms, his eyes squeezed tight shut as he kicked violently, tangled in the covers.

“Wake up- wake up, John. Come on now-”

Fully awake, Paul swept the hair off John’s sweaty face and patted urgently at his cheeks, coaxing him around. Slowly, John began to calm down, his tremors giving way to silent tears. Hiccupping harshly, he buried his face against Paul’s neck and struggled to collect himself, not a single coherent word leaving his mouth.

Paul threaded a steady hand through John’s hair, massaging his fingertips against his scalp. “Easy there, Johnny. Yer alright now. Just a dream-”

“Paul.”

“Johnny?”

“Paul- is it real?”

 _Christ_. “I’m here, John. This is real. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

A pair of tear-flooded eyes pinned Paul in place, hazy and disoriented. “Paul?”

Understanding, Paul answered firmly. “John.”

_“Paul?”_

_“John.”_

“Paul…” John hunched further into Paul’s chest, his knees tucked up so that he was as small as he could make himself on Paul’s lap. Slowly, his breathing began to even out. “I’m not- I- I didn’t-”

“Shh, there’s plenty of time to tell us about it later, yeah? Just focus on calming down. There you are…”

“ _Paul_ … I didn’t want this - I didn’t want- I didn’t really want-”

“Didn’t want what, Lennie?”

John gasped and clutched at Paul’s shirt, sitting back to look up at him. “A divorce! I didn’t _really_ want one- I didn’t- I just _say_ things, you know- and I- oh God, I _didn’t_ -”

Paul rubbed John’s arms soothingly, trying to catch his wavering eyes. “Easy now, you have to calm down. You’ll make yourself sick-”

“I _am_ sick!”

John turned to Paul, soul-deep pain evident in his flushed face. “I wanted to hurt you because I was so- so jealous, and now- _now I’ll never get out of Wonderland_ …”

“John… Wonderland isn’t real…”

“But it is real! I’ve been trying to find my way h-home, Paul, but- but all I do is get deeper- and deeper and- and- I _married_ her! Because you got married! I was so _jealous_ \- and it _hurt_ and I didn’t- I didn’t want you to go- and I was _lost_ -”

Unsure of what to say, Paul simply petted at John’s hair, soothing him as best he could. Strangely, John’s tears kept coming, even after the full-body tremors had ceased. Worry flickered through Paul and he sat back to see John’s face. “We alright, Johnny? Just a nightmare, see? We’re alright-”

But John shook his head quickly in adamant denial. “I’m _living_ a nightmare, Paul. This life- this is a _nightmare_ and I- I let it happen. Now I- I can’t even escape it when I sleep…” John turned to look up at his former bandmate. “I used to love sleeping. Dreaming, y’know. But now I just live it all over and over and over…”

Paul nodded, understanding to a degree. Some of John’s best work had been the result of dreams. “Y’know, John,” he began slowly, carefully. “Geo and Rings brought your Rick with them… May snuck it out of the Dakota. I have your acoustic here too if you want to try and work the dream out?”

But John shook his head in the negative, a fresh round of ragged gasps breaking from his lips. “I told you. The music’s _gone_. I can’t- I can’t write anymore-”

“I’m sure that’s not true, you just need some rest-”

“But it is! I can’t- I _can’t_ -”

“Alright, alright, let’s calm down. We can talk about it later, aye? Here.” Paul reached to the nightstand and grabbed the cup of water there, lifting it to John’s mouth. “Drink.”

With Paul’s help, John managed to take a few swigs from the glass before he turned his face away, agitation still twisting his features. Remembering Dr. Anderson’s advice to keep things simple and constantly reaffirm John’s reality, Paul cleared his throat. “There you are,” he whispered, stroking a hand down John’s spine, still painfully prominent beneath his palm. “We’re alright. I love you, and we’re alright.”

“We _aren’t_ \- I have to be _better_ \- I have to be _enough_ -”

“You’ve always been enough-”

“But in India- in India, you _left me_.”

Paul swallowed thickly. He knew that it would come up eventually, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be under these circumstances...

“I didn’t know what to do. I knew what I _wanted_ , but I didn’t… I didn’t know how to get it, John. I _wanted_ you. But I didn’t know how to _have_ you…”

John squirmed out of his arms and Paul felt a cold chill.

He looked on, feeling helpless, as John slid backwards and away from him, moving to the opposite side of the bed. Paul’s stomach twisted as John turned angry eyes at him, his brow pinched with pain and glistening with sweat. “You said ‘not now.’ You said _‘not right now’_ and I might be a fool, but I’m not stupid, Paul! I know what ‘not right now’ means!”

 _This is new_.

Calming himself, Paul managed to keep his voice low. “What do you mean? John, I-”

_“Don’t do that.”_

Paul cocked his head. “Don’t do… what?”

John glared and flailed a hand at him, as if he were trying to shoo Paul away. “That _thing_ with your face. The curtains are down, like you do with the birds and the press…” Very suddenly, John’s face crumpled, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve done it. You’ve done it and put it up and _I can’t see you_.”

Paul scrambled, trying to set everything in his mind straight. Across from him, John’s face was rapidly falling, his posture caving in, his eyes beginning to gloss over. John wasn’t the type to wear a mask or apologize, and, as hard as he’d always tried, he’d never been able to hide how he felt. John wore every emotion plainly on his face. And just then, he was falling faster than he could catch himself.

Desperate, Paul reached out and grabbed John’s hand, half-convinced that he could drag the other man back from the mental precipice he’d arrived at. Really, Paul knew that there was no clean way to tell John what he wanted to say. No matter how he said it, it was going to be messy, jumbled. But despite all the rest, it was going to be real.

“I wanted you, John. I still do, I’ll always want you. Back then, I… I was afraid of how they would see it. How it would go over if we were exclusive, if everyone knew about us. I knew that it would be fine, but in that moment- Christ, I _panicked_ , John, and I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t say ‘no’ though, did I? I just needed time to think-”

“What was there to think about, Paul? If it was worth it or not? If _I_ was worth it or not? Do you know how many times- do you know how many _bloody fucking times_ I’ve heard _‘not right now’?"_

John jerked his wrist out of Paul’s grip, his teeth bared. “I asked Mimi a hundred times, ‘when is Mother coming home?’ You know what she said? _‘Not right now,’_ she’d say. Do you know what Stu said? He said _‘not right now’_ too! And Yoko-”

John cackled harshly, his Adam’s apple jumping as he threw his head back and laughed. “I would call her and all I got was ‘she’s not available, not right now’! Can you believe it? And do you know what happened _then_ , Paul? I started to realize that ‘not right now’ meant _never_ , see? ‘You’re not good enough, John, _not right now!_ Julia doesn’t want you, J-John, _not right now!_ Not _ever!_ You- you don’t deserve it, John, _not right now!_ N-Not right now- not- _not right_ -”

_“I was scared, John!”_

“So was I! _That doesn’t make you special, Paul!_ Do you think I wasn’t terrified? Because I was! But I knew that if I didn’t say what I needed to say then I never would, and _by God_ I’d been a _bleeding coward_ my entire life until _that moment!_ But the moment I actually tried to keep someone, to tell you the truth and what I wanted, _you left me!_ ”

Paul sat back, his eyebrows hiking high onto his forehead as he stared at John.

.

_I need. I need. I need._

_John felt as if he was falling, waiting for his back to meet the ground below. There was something lodged in his throat, keeping him from crying out, keeping him from-_

_And he still couldn’t see Paul._

_Those kaleidoscope eyes were closed off, empty, void, just the way Paul always was around everyone else. That connection was unavailable and John felt like his string had been cut. He couldn’t get out of the maze without a string to follow! He couldn’t keep his feet on the ground by himself..._

I don’t want to die… I just wanna stay alive…

_“John… don’t…”_

I have to go, _he wanted to scream,_ You let me go, you left me alone, you aren’t my home, why couldn’t you be my home?

_John felt his heart thundering in his chest and he ached, not for the first time, to make it shut up. To just turn it off for a little while… wasn’t there a frog that could do that, when it wanted to hibernate? Or was is some lizard?_

She’s well-acquainted with the touch of a velvet hand-

_From a distance, John felt the hand leave his arm, felt the presence before him retreating away. Though he’d long since closed his eyes, John knew that it was Paul there, leaving him again. The air beneath John’s nose suddenly tasted stale on his tongue, his body growing colder by the second._

_Paul was leaving, going back out into the world, the one where he was the PR man, the perfectly-mannered son. Perhaps John hadn’t sullied him after all then._ Perhaps Paul could still live a happy, fulfilled life.

_A hand cupped John’s jaw and he felt himself flinch, quickly blinking his eyes open._

_Before him were a set of kaleidoscopes, bright with unshed tears. They were boring into John with an intensity like no other, filled with a thousand colors and emotions and memories shared. From behind them, a raspy voice could be heard singing. It was a single frayed string, looped around John’s aorta._

“Oh, Johnny,” _the voice sang, so soft and plaintive and sweet,_ “how are we gonna tell them? Why don’t we go somewhere, somewhere they don’t own us…”

_John stared into those kaleidoscopes, unable to look away. Somewhere, down, down, down inside of himself, deeper than his self-hatred and hidden more carefully than his soft heart, John felt something shift. He imagined a door, a door of reinforced steel, it’s hinges rusty from disuse, right there behind the hollow of his throat-_

“Yeah, we’re going far away, we’re gonna leave…”

_John felt himself speaking, his voice echoing from the other side of the heavy metal door. “I wanna go. Macca, I wanna go.”_

_The singing stopped and John felt the hand on his jaw shift with the body it was attached to. “Where do you wanna go, Johnny? We can go anywhere you want.”_

_“Paris,” John breathed, his head swimming with memories of sweet wine and sweeter (albeit imagined) kisses. “I miss Paris, Paulie.”_

_There came a gentle laugh. “When you’re better, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll leave town and go to Paris…”_

_“I’ll buy you milkshakes…”_

_“You’ll buy me milkshakes. And I’ll kiss you.”_

_“Where? Where will you kiss me, Paul?”_

_“Everywhere.” Those glorious kaleidoscope eyes glistened, a lone raindrop escaping the leftmost one. “I’ll kiss you in front of the world, if you like.”_

_“Will it… will it be real?”_

_“Every second will be real, Johnny. I promise you.”_

.

The life slowly returned to John’s sunken face, a touch of color blossoming across his cheeks. Paul sighed and rubbed his thumb across the bruise beneath John’s eye. The eye fluttered and stayed steadily fixed on Paul, bloodshot but clear and aware.

After a few minutes of breathing and staring intently at Paul’s face, John looked away. “You said ‘not right now.’ And I thought you meant never.”

“That’s not what I meant at all, Johnny. I just needed time.”

“So… so it was all for nothing? The fighting… the divorce… it was all because...”

Hurrying, Paul stuttered, determined to head off another mental retreat. “No, no. That’s not it at all. I should’ve… I should’ve thought about how you’d hear it. I should’ve just said what I wanted to say. Instead of ‘not right now.’ I was being… fuck, I was being a fool, John. You told me what you wanted and I was a coward in the rain.”

“What did you want to say, then?”

“John, I don’t-”

“Please, Paul. I need you to say it. _I need it_.”

Looking across into John’s eyes, Paul felt as if he were glimpsing the other side of the universe. A place where they were only theirs and had no expectations or limitations. Seeing John’s soul there, so rarely shown to anyone, Paul knew that he couldn’t keep it all to himself again.

“I wanted… I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say yes and tell everyone despite what they thought. I wanted to not care about the band or the songs, I wanted to kiss you anytime, anywhere, just like everyone else gets to do. And I shouldn’t have asked you to wait, John, that wasn’t fair, I know that, I knew it the second that I said it! And I know fear shouldn’t even be able to compete with love, it shouldn’t have won that day, but I waited a moment too long. I can’t say that my answer would’ve changed the next day, or the next week, but I always knew how I really felt, what I really wanted. And that was you. Every second since that day at the fete, I knew it was going to be you.”

When Paul had finished, silence fell between them, interspersed by their ragged breathing and racing hearts.

It felt like hours before John finally moved, lifting his hand to place it over Paul’s on his cheek. “I… I want out, Paul.”

The bassist choked, feeling sick. _So he’d been too late anyway._ “What do you want out of, Johnny?”

John squirmed, pulling away from Paul’s hand but keeping it clasped firmly in his own. Breathless and halting, he sang his part of the song. _“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know… I want to leave right now, I want to get out of town…”_

Paul nodded along, hoping that he understood. “We can go to Paris when you feel up to it-”

“Not Paris.”

“Then where?”

“Scotland.”

Paul blinked. “You- You want to go? To Scotland? With me?”

John nodded before looking down at their hands, still joined between them. “I want to go to Scotland. With you. When can we go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to come out with this chapter! Writer's block really got me with this one.
> 
> Also... story time. Because I know y'all will appreciate it :)
> 
> I walked out of a band a few years back because I was told that "I didn't have the right voice.” I quit singing altogether after that and hadn’t touched music since then.
> 
> Recently, I sang a song that I wrote to a producer friend of mine... he thought it was good, so we ended up sending it to Nashville! I've been recording every week for the past month, working on my first album.
> 
> I know that drug on a bit, but that's why I haven't posted as much as I did at the start. I'll keep updating (this fic series is my favorite), so no worries! The posts might be a bit scattered though with everything going on. Anyway, I just had to share :)


	25. Paul

Just as they were settling down to sleep once more, a knock sounded at the front door. The pair shared a silent look before Paul rolled upright, flipping on the bedside lamp as he did. Motioning for John to stay down, he checked the clock on the bedside table. It was barely 6 AM.

“Paul-”

“Just stay here. It’s probably Joel, but I wanna be sure.”

Tired eyes glittered at him in the dim light, bobbing as John nodded, offering up none of the fight that Paul had expected. Resisting the impulse to leave a kiss on John’s forehead, Paul silently stood and made his way to the door.

Setting his shoulders, Paul stepped into the main living space, pulling the bedroom door closed until there was only a crack. Though he was confident that their visitor was indeed Dr. Anderson, Paul remembered that the doctor usually called before coming over. If it wasn’t him… well, no one needed to see John just yet.

Taking a deep breath and placing a neutral mask on his face, Paul opened the door. Upon seeing the man on the other side, Paul released a sigh of relief. “Joel. Bit early, isn’t it?”

With a brief nod to Paul, the doctor wordlessly stepped into the cabin. His usually friendly face was white with shock. “Joel?” Paul asked, closing the door against the chill.

The doctor didn’t respond as he made his way into the living room and slumped into one of the chairs. On edge, Paul trailed after him, taking a seat on the recently vacated couch.

After several more minutes had passed and Dr. Anderson still hadn’t spoken a word, Paul tried again, his anxiety mounting. “Doctor… what’s happened? Have you heard something?”

Slowly, the other man lifted his uncombed head. “Is John asleep?”

“No… should I get him?”

Quickly, the doctor shook his head in the negative. “Not yet, I don’t think. It’s Ms. Ono… she…”

Paul’s stomach dropped. “Christ… tell me she didn’t…”

“What? Oh! No, no, she didn’t do _that_. She’s alive. She’s very much alive…”

Immediately, some of the weight lifted from Paul’s shoulders. “What has you so wound up then? By the way you spoke yesterday, she’s going to get the help she needs…”

“Yes. Yes, that’s true… but Paul…”

Dr. Anderson looked to the bedroom door before dropping his voice to a whisper. “She wasn’t… she wasn’t _alone_ when they went to check on her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was… _with_ someone. As in… _with someone_.”

Paul didn’t move for several seconds, the information slowly sinking in. After a moment or two, he stood and walked to the bedroom door.

Pushing it open, he barely stopped in time from hitting John squarely in the face.

By the look of it, John had heard Dr. Anderson clearly enough. Though his eyes were as sharp as those of a hawk, John’s weakened body sagged fully against the doorframe, his robe hanging limply from his skinny body. “Sam Havadtoy?” he asked, still looking up at Paul. “Was it Sam Havadtoy then?”

John waited for Dr. Anderson’s slow nod before he scoffed, shrugging loosely. “Knew she fancied the prick. So they were in our bed?”

“Mr. Lennon- John, I-”

“Save it.” John smiled thinly. “I suppose she’s alright then, aye?”

Despite John’s put on flippancy, Paul detected the emptiness in the other man, the way he refused to meet either of their eyes. From where he stood at John’s side, Paul sensed the impending crash as one would sense a coming storm. He could already feel the weight of it coming down squarely on his own shoulders, the pressure and static gathering at his temples. _I wish I’d had time to tell him more gently_.

“Making tea then, Paulie?”

Woodenly, Paul nodded and made his way into the kitchen. Though he would’ve rather helped John into his chair at the bar, he knew better than to hover just then. “Fancy a cuppa, Joel?”

“A… what?”

Paul managed a tight smile. “Tea. Or do you prefer coffee?”

“Oh. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Thanks.” With a nod, Paul set about filling the tea kettle with fresh water.

Slowly, John made his way across the room, limping heavily as he went. “What happened? From the start if you will.”

The doctor folded his shaking hands. “There were five people sent to carry out the wellness check: two male officers and two female, enough to secure the premises and control the crowd. There’s been a crowd outside the Dakota ever since the news broke that John left… anyway, my colleague went along too so that he could provide assistance if needed. Be a bit of a barrier between Ms. Ono and the police, as it were…”

John didn’t even blink. “I see. Go on.”

Dr. Anderson, usually so calm and professional, chewed harshly at his lip. “The police were given a key to unlock the suite. Inside, they discovered Ms. Ono engaged in- they found her in bed with him. With Sam Havadtoy.”

Paul watched as John took a seat beside a still shocked Dr. Anderson. His movements were smooth, telegraphing a carefully fashioned control. Paul reached for the kettle as John fixed Dr. Anderson with a pointed look. “Is that all? She was fucking Havadtoy in our bed?”

A blush flamed up on Dr. Anderson’s previously wan cheeks, but his voice remained steady. “No, that’s not all. There’s more.”

Paul’s hands stopped fussing over the kettle and mugs. “What then?” _Did she hurt herself after all?_

The doctor sat back a bit in his chair. “It’s true that you live in separate apartments, right?” He waited for John to nod before heaving a sigh. “That’s what the staff said. Your separate living arrangements might help-”

“‘Might help’?” John’s tongue darted across dry, cracked lips. “Why is that?”

“Well…”

Paul delivered the tea before leaning against the edge of the bar across from them. He could tell by Dr. Anderson’s hesitation that whatever was coming wasn’t going to be good. “What needs helping?”

The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed harshly at his own eyes. “I’m sorry, but… they found drugs in her office, and in her bedroom. I told you there’d be a search-”

“No. _No_. It had to have been planted, she-”

“John, I-”

“What drugs were found?” Paul leaned forward, drawing their attention away from each other and toward himself. “Do you know what drugs were found, Joel? Did they search John’s quarters too?”

Dr. Anderson looked away. “It was heroin. Diluted with baby powder, but still heroin all the same. A significant amount by the way my colleague spoke.” The doctor paused briefly, allowing the information to sink in before he continued. “You apartments were searched as well, Mr. Lennon. They were clean. The worst that they found in yours were cigarettes and a few chocolate bars.”

John stared down into his mug, his throat jerking visibly. “There has to be some mistake. She wouldn’t-”

“Mr. Lennon.” Dr. Anderson waited for the other man to meet this eyes. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Ono was high when they took her in. As was Mr. Havadtoy-”

“They took her in? You said she wouldn’t be arrested-”

“I didn’t say that. I said that she would be kept from hurting herself, no matter what was found. Right now, Ms. Ono is being held in a secure location until she can be transferred to a rehab facility.”

Silence settled around them, only broken by the sound of wind whistling by the kitchen window. At a loss, Paul stared resolutely down into his mug, watching the water darken as his tea brewed. _What was there to say? What was there to do?_ There was no doubt that the media would soon catch wind of Yoko’s drug use and subsequent arrest. There was also the inevitable fact that someone would leak about Havadtoy’s presence… at any moment a staffer might come forward and expose-

As if reading Paul’s mind, Dr. Anderson began to speak. “We must face the likelihood that the news will break sooner rather than later. I spoke to my colleague this morning and he notified me that the amount of heroin present in Ms. Ono’s apartments was enough to be classified as a “serious crime.” Those are his words, not mine. In any case, her charges are serious enough…”

The doctor glanced at John, but the guitarist was staring off into the middle distance, deep inside his own mind. “The charges are serious enough that she might have her green card revoked. I’m sure that you know what that means, Mr. Lennon, having had your own struggles-”

“Paul.”

Lifting his head, Paul caught sight of John across the bar. He looked pale and exhausted, trembling in his bathrobe. “Paul,” he said again, his voice wavering. “Paul, I don’t feel well.”

“You don’t feel well?”

John’s face drooped further. “Feel sick. Don’t wanna be sick.”

“I don’t want that either. Look at me, Johnny.”

“Paul…”

“Just look at me. Look at me now.”

Keeping himself calm and his movements slow, Paul made his way around the bar. Reaching out, he rested a light hand on John’s shoulder. “What do you always say, hm? What did you tell Ringo?”

Under his hand, John continued to shake, his face colorless in the cabin’s dim lighting. “I don’t know what to do… I don’t know…”

Paul looked at Dr. Anderson over the top of John’s head. Understanding, the doctor nodded and stood, making his way into the nearby living room.

Taking Dr. Anderson’s recently vacated chair, Paul swiveled to face the other man head on. “John-”

“Is any of it real?”

“This is all real. What Dr. Anderson said is real, Johnny.”

“No… not that…”

“Then what part?”

John turned to Paul. He resembled a broken-stemmed flower, starved of both sun and water, withering away before Paul’s very eyes. “I know I sing… I _sang_ about it. Love, you know. But is it _real?_ Does love exist or did I… did I imagine it? Did I want it so bad that I started to feel it? Even when it wasn’t real? She lied to me. About the drugs, about Sam-”

“I think… that can happen. That love can be imagined, I mean. But that doesn’t mean that love isn’t real at all.”

“How do I know when it’s real? And not just me needing it?”

Paul saw that broken-hearted little boy in John’s eyes, the one that was forced to choose between his parents at the tender age of five. More than anything, he ached to pull John to his chest and promise him that not all love breaks down and fades away. Not all love is conditional or imagined or can be turned off with the flick of a switch.

Instead, Paul remained perfectly still, his hand resting lightly on John’s shoulder blade. “Mimi loves you. George and Ringo love you-”

“But did _she?_ Really?”

“That’s something only you can answer, Johnny. Do you love her?”

John flinched away from the question, his hands fisting the material of his robe. “I don’t know… I thought I did, but… Christ, I don’t know, I- I can’t breathe-”

“Calm down. You don’t have to think about all that, not right now. She’s safe and exactly where she needs to be. She’ll get help and the two of you… the two of you can talk things through later, if you like. But right now, you are safe and exactly wh-”

“I don’t want to talk things through with her, Paul.” John gazed up at Paul, his eyes bloodshot but dry. “I don’t want to talk with her. Dr. Anderson said she can’t hurt herself…”

“That’s right.”

“And she’s going to get help.”

Paul nodded slowly, unsure. “Yes, that’s what he said.”

“Then… good.”

“‘Good’?”

The former rhythm guitarist folded his arms around himself and sniffed. “It was a fantasy. The drugs, the lies… _us_. I tried so hard… I really thought love would save me, you know? Would save us… but I asked for the truth. I wanted the truth and she… well. I got it, don’t you think?”

John hung his head, his cheek brushing Paul’s arm. Immediately, he flinched away from the other man, shrugging out from under Paul’s hand altogether. Paul withdrew, giving John space. “John, are you sure you want to go to Scotland right now? With this going on?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know… I just want to make sure. We can wait until things settle.”

John met his eyes briefly before letting his head fall again, hanging low. “Paulie…”

Cocking his head, Paul bent closer. “Johnny?”

Coughing a bit, John finally sat up enough so that Paul could meet his eyes. John’s dry skin was pulled tight across his face, sinking into his shadowed eye sockets and the hollows of his cheeks. He appeared ghostly, completely used up as he gazed across at Paul. Really, he resembled a survivor of some kind, someone that had crawled out from the wilderness of self-doubt and betrayal. The bruise on his temple, though faded to a dull green, was dark against his waxen features and there was a crack through his bottom lip. Paul could see that it was bleeding, leaving a matching red spot on John’s upper lip every time he opened his mouth.

_Oh Johnny… my poor Johnny…_

Loosing another hoarse wheeze, John splayed his bony hand against the bar for support, his thin, colorless lips moving slowly, deliberately. All the while, his eyes never left Paul’s.

“Paul-sweet…”

The old name sent goose pimples across Paul’s entire body and he shivered, captured completely by the look John was giving him. Paul had only ever heard that name on the rarest occasions, when John was at his most vulnerable. It was a name whispered against his skin in the most intimate of moments. “John,” Paul whispered in answer, feeling his pulse in the roof of his mouth.

“I need… I’m… I need your help. _I need you._ ” John’s Adam’s apple jumped, his voice raspy and sore. He sucked a breath in, the sound rattling in his thin chest. “I can’t do it alone. I need help. I need your help…”

_Help me if you can, I’m feeling down…_

Clutching his hands together in his lap, Paul leaned forward. “I’ll help you, Johnny. Every step of the way, I’ll be right there. We’re going to be alright, yeah? It’ll take a bit, but… it’ll all be okay in the end, yeah?”

“And if it’s not okay… then it’s not the end.”

Paul smiled. “That’s right. We’re gonna be okay. You’ll see.”

Carefully, Paul nudged John’s cup closer. “Drink up, hm? We have to keep you hydrated.”

John took up the mug in both hands, his fingers twitching around it as he tipped it up and pulled in two gulps of warm, English tea. Watching from the side, Paul marveled at John’s profile, at the way his throat moved and his eyelids fluttered with every swallow. Even so sick and weak, John Lennon was still the most beautiful man that Paul McCartney had ever seen.

Behind them, Dr. Anderson re-entered the kitchen area, his medical bag slung over his shoulder. After receiving a nod from Paul, the doctor sat the bag down on the bar. “Alright, John. I’ll just check your hands and foot to make sure they’re clean and on the road to closing alright. I see you’re drinking, so I’ll hold off on connecting another IV for now. I’ll be back tonight though to check on you again. If you can, try to eat sometime today and then against after I leave tonight. By this evening, I should have heard back from Syracuse with an update on Mr. Starkey…”

Paul nodded slowly, barely hearing the doctor as he watched John set the mug down. _Even if we never do make it back to how it was at the start, I’ll be with you,_ Paul thought, helping John unwrap to bandages on his right hand and then his left. _No matter how long it takes, every step of the way. I’ll be there with you._


	26. Paul/John

“I don’t know, May…”

“It’s private though! You know John will appreciate that. I know you want it too, so just- just don’t think about it. Can you do that?”

“But… isn’t he going to meet us there?”

May paused on her end of the line. “Well… yes. But! You can forget who the plane belongs to once you’re in the air. And this way you won’t have to charter one and it’ll be more private…”

As relieved as Paul was to finally be headed to Scotland with John, he wasn’t quite sold on their means of getting there. Sure, borrowing another musician’s private jet was a wonderful idea, all considered. The heightened sense of privacy inflight had certainly been a deciding factor.

Really, there was only one catch.

It was David Bowie’s private jet.

“Paul, you know John would love to see him. Even for just a minute or two. David misses him, Harry misses him. They really-”

“Harry’s gonna be there too?”

May released an audible sigh. “No, he won’t. I told David that we were keeping this quiet. He hasn’t told anyone.”

“Does he know? About Yoko and… well, does David know?”

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say… but I thought he should know before the news broke. I told him. About Havadtoy and the bust. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m glad you did. Now I don’t have to.”

Paul gouged his fingertips at his own eyes, grimacing. On the couch just a few feet away, John lay curled up on his side, a heavy blanket draped over his shivering form. Despite the cabin being well insulated, it had become clear that morning that the heating system was in dire need of updating. Just after Dr. Anderson had gone, there had been a dull rumble as the system failed, giving a final huff of warmth before puttering out completely. It would only be a few short hours before the cabin was as chilly inside as the woods outside.

Paul frowned down at John and tucked his own sweater more securely around himself. When it came down to it, he really couldn’t afford to linger over questionable relationships. If David wanted to help, then Paul had no choice but to accept. Even if it turned out that John and David _had_ had a little fling in the past. “Alright, May. When will it be ready? Who can I call to set up-”

“Great! Oh, that’s so great. And don’t worry…” Paul heard May shuffle a stack of papers, likely bouncing them against a desk. “I already set it up. Ned says he can pick you up as early as tomorrow evening and take you to Oneonta Municipal Airport. The jet will be flying in tomorrow afternoon, so there will be time for it to fuel. They’ll also be able to load John’s stuff in the meantime.”

“‘John’s stuff’?”

“Oh! That’s right, I forgot.” May tittered to herself, a pleased sound escaping her. “Do you remember Mary, the staffer who helped me get John’s Rick? Well, she managed to get more clothes out after the police searched the apartment last night. It was all such a mess that she just gathered up some things and walked out! So now I have five suitcases of John’s stuff. I haven’t opened them, so I don’t know if it’s clothes or instruments or albums or-”

“Christ, May…”

“Yes? Paul?”

Paul braced his hand on the bar, breathing deeply for the first time in days. Everything was falling into place: Dr. Anderson’s cousin was prepared to meet them, John would have some of his own belongings instead of having to borrow Paul’s all the time…

Paul’s throat tightened. _They were going home. Finally._ “May… how can I ever thank you?”

The young woman laughed over the line, a high ringing sound that made Paul smile. “Just take care of John, yeah? If you do that, that’s thanks enough. I’ve got to call David back, so I’ll see you tomorrow night, yeah? And Ned said he’ll be there around five.”

“That’s right. Thank you, May. Really. Thank you.”

Quietly, so as to avoid disturbing John, Paul hung the phone on the wall. It turned out that he needn’t have bothered. The moment he said goodbye to May, John’s eyes blinked open. “How is she?”

Paul offered him a smile and walked to the couch, taking a seat on the edge beside John. “She’s doing well. She’s gotten a few suitcases for you that she’ll be bringing to the airport tomorrow. That’s when we’re flying out.”

“Tomorrow?”

“That’s right. Is that okay?”

John nodded quickly. “Sooner than I thought. Will she be there? At the airport?”

“Yes, she-”

“And David too?”

Paul fought to keep his face neutral. “Aye, they’ll both be there to see us off.”

John looked away, back down at the pillow he’d previously been nestled into. “It’ll be good. To see them, I mean. Haven’t talked to them in a bit, you know.”

Out of nowhere, John fixed Paul with a look. “We didn’t fuck if that’s what you’re so sour about.”

Taken back, Paul tried to steady himself with a laugh. Unfortunately, it fell far flatter than he’d intended. “John, I was-”

“We tossed each other off a time or two. It was fun.”

John was watching him carefully and Paul felt his cheeks flush. Of course John would see right through him. After all, who could catch out a jealous guy faster than another jealous guy?

Clearing his throat, Paul moved to stand when a hand came to rest on his arm. Pulling his gaze from the floor, he finally met John’s eyes.

There was a flicker of humor in the other man’s face, evident in the cant of his eyebrows and the twitch of his thin mouth. Paul held perfectly still as John ran his thumb across his forearm, disturbing the skin into a mess of chills and goosebumps. Not for the time, Paul wished he could hug John to himself and never let him go, wished that he could shape himself into a human barrier against the rest of the world. _Mine,_ Paul’s mind chimed as he looked down at John where he was reclined back on the pillow. _He is mine and no one can touch him but me._

“Paul…”

The hand on his arm tightened minutely and Paul met John’s eyes, allowing the closeness to wash over him. He was reminded again that he’d accepted these moments to be over, that he would never be able to touch John again or speak to him face to face. A thousand snide comments and years of frigid silence had convinced Paul that John was out of his reach, so far that he may as well have been across the universe.

But in that moment, there on the couch as he looked down at John, Paul knew that it would never be that simple for them. They would never truly be apart, no matter the physical distance or the supposed, media-fueled hatred between them.

John blinked slowly, his tongue darting out to wet tooth-pinched lips. “Paul, I… I’m so glad you’re here. You know that, aye? I wouldn’t- I don’t-”

“I know, Johnny. I know.”

And of course Paul knew. It would be wonderful for John to see May and David again, even Cynthia if she was up for it in the future. John needed to reconnect with all the people he loved and who loved him in return. But Paul understood the look in John’s eyes, felt the way the other man pressed a bit closer against his hip. As much as John loved them all, there was no one that John would rather be with than Paul.

_In my life… I love you more._

“Paul, can you…?”

Without hesitating, Paul leant down and rested his forehead against John’s. The hand, still locked around Paul’s wrist, tightened to the point of pain, but Paul couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he could feel John’s breath against his lips, a bit raspy and harsh, but there all the same. Just a week earlier, Paul had thought he’d never feel that beery breath against his face again.

Paul bumped his nose against John’s, earning himself a soft gasp. Brown eyes, just an inch or so from Paul’s own, fluttered slightly, the lashes moist and sticking together. Another quiet sound, this time from John’s chest, made Paul pull away slightly. But before he got too far, John lifted his chin and brushed his mouth against Paul’s own, slowly, tentatively, before he rested back once more.

At first, Paul was unaware that the hand on his arm was gone. He jumped when strong, familiar fingers wove deftly through his hair, tugging lightly on the dark strands. Lacking the energy (or will) to stop the sound, Paul allowed himself a moan as those fingers combed his hair back from his face, the pad of a thumb brushing his temple briefly with the act. Shifting his balance, Paul did the same to John, running his own fingertips through fluffy auburn curls.

_There… running my hands through his hair…_

Paul bent to kiss lightly at John’s lips, sipping at them as if John were a rare, expensive wine. In turn, John splayed his hand across Paul’s cheek and the bassist turned his head, lifting his own hand to steady John’s as he scattered kisses across the palm. _Such beautiful hands,_ he thought, nuzzling the skin near John’s wrist. _My sweet, beautiful Johnny…_

.

Home. We’re on our way home…

_John’s head swam as he watched Paul kiss his fingertips, laving attention on each one before moving on to the next. Paul’s forehead furrowed with each kiss, as if he was trying to focus all of his energy on each one, as if he was trying to press a piece of his soul into every caress._

Paul… Macca…

_Paul abandoned his hand in favor of sucking wet patches on John’s stubble-strewn throat, his nose prodding at the soft spot just beneath John’s ear. Beneath the blanket, trapped inside a pair of borrowed sweatpants, John felt himself twitch with interest, a familiar heat pooling low in his belly. Cheeks flushing, John couldn’t help but squirm a bit beneath Paul’s wandering hands. Christ, it felt so damn good to be touched, to be held, to have-_

But you didn’t… I don’t deserve this.

_Like a wave of cold water, John felt the familiar pressure of self-hatred descend, so quickly that it left him gasping into Paul’s hair. He was suddenly hyperaware of his body, pale and soft and_ fat, _pressed against the other man from head to toe. Though there were ample amounts of clothes and a blanket between them, John knew that Paul was close enough to feel it all, to feel the looseness of his waist and the wobble of his thighs. Suddenly, his own arousal felt disgusting and John turned his face away, trying to regain control._ He shouldn’t be touching you, you dirty, repulsive-

_“Johnny? John?”_

_Horrified with himself, John shrank back into the couch, his hands flying up to rest firmly on Paul’s shoulders. Paul sat up enough to look down at him, his delicate eyebrows bunched with confusion. Unable to stop, John’s breath hitched audibly, his mouth twisting as he tried and failed to hold back the choking sound._

_“John,” Paul whispered again, sitting up a bit more so that he was no longer pressed so firmly against John. Fighting to calm himself, John watched, his heart sinking, as Paul retreated to sit once more on the edge of the couch._

You stupid boy, look at what you’ve done. You hurt Paul. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? _“Paul, I don’t-”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

.

He’d gotten carried away.

The novelty of touching John, of just feeling him against him after so long… Paul chastised himself. God only knew what John had been through, and he certainly wasn’t in any condition to be- to be _doing things_. He was still recovering, both mentally and physically. The last thing that he needed to be worrying about was Paul's inability to keep his hands to himself.

After a moment or two, Paul turned back and smiled down at the other man, keeping his hands folded and locked securely between his own knees.

John was already gazing expectantly up at him, his face pale and drawn. He didn’t look like he was on the edge of a withdrawal, but Paul was determined to keep it that way. And the best way that Paul could see to do that was to remove whatever was causing John distress. In this case, it was himself.

Moving to stand, Paul kept his voice chipper and light. “I think I’ll make us some tea, yeah? There’s a woodpile out behind. I know the fireplace is-”

A hand darted out and caught the edge of Paul’s sweater as he gained his feet, making him to freeze.

“Paul…”

Looking down, Paul caught John’s eye. The older man was shaking, whether from weakness or cold or anxiety, he didn’t know. Resettling on the couch, Paul gently untwined the hand from his sweater and held it in his own. “I’m just off to make us a cuppa. Then maybe build a fire in the fireplace.”

John swallowed and looked down. “I… I want…”

Paul leaned closer, his heartbeat jumping a bit. “What do you want, Johnny?” _I’ll give you anything,_ was left unsaid.

John squeezed Paul’s hand, offering a watery smile. “… Touching is good.”

Paul returned the grin and squeezed back. “Aye, it is.”

“So. I want you to. Just not… Y’know. Like _that_.”

Paul nodded, understanding. “We don’t have to do any of that. Is kissing alright?”

John nodded. “Christ, I hope so. Just as long as… y’know.”

“I know.”

“... Paul?”

“Aye?”

“Do you… do we need the fire right now? Do you think?”

Paul’s smile only widened. “I suppose not. Though… how will we stay warm then, Johnny?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Paul.”

Without further prodding, Paul moved to gingerly pull John upright and against himself, effectively snuggling both of them under the blanket. Much like a cat, John curled himself around Paul, tossing his legs over the other man’s before tucking his head beneath Paul’s chin. He tucked himself so securely against Paul that the former bassist was reminded of two puzzle pieces, finally coming together after surviving a hurricane.

_We’re on our way home…_

After sparing a moment to soaking John’s unusually open display of submissive behavior, Paul proceeded to wrap his arms around the smaller man. He even ducked his head to pull a deep breath while burying his nose in John’s hair. _This is real,_ he reminded himself, petting a hand through John’s hair. Sighing with contentment, Paul skimmed his fingers down John’s shoulder blade and closed his eyes. It would be a long road, to be sure. But perhaps they were finally headed in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update, friends. My mental health has tanked and I've had to focus a lot of energy on making myself eat lately. As always, thanks for your continued support :)


	27. Paul

Wakefulness came slowly to Paul, leisurely creeping in at the edges of his awareness. He sighed deeply and felt a certain weight resettle on his chest. A cold nose pressed more firmly into his jaw, somehow both startling and soothing him.

Blinking open tired eyes, Paul took in the cabin’s interior.

Paul’s mug still sat on the bar, loyally holding his long-cold tea. Across the room, dust motes swirled in the front windows, throwing light into the otherwise gloomy room. The clock on the wall, the one that John had insisted on buying despite its persistent inability to keep time, continued to tick away, perhaps displaying the hour of some far off, unreachable place.

John shifted in his sleep and Paul tightened his hold, tucking the blanket more firmly around them. The room had developed an obvious chill in the hours since they’d first cuddled up on the couch. Nestling deeper into the other man’s side, Paul blinked sleepily as John resettled with a soft exhale. The former bassist suppressed a shiver as John’s breath whispered across his bare neck, drawing goosebumps on his skin. Within moments, John stilled and the room fell silent once more.

_This. We could’ve had this._

Carefully, Paul separated himself from John and, the moment that the blanket fell away, he loosed a harsh curse. Wrinkling his rather numb nose, Paul discovered that he could actually see his own breath in the frigid air. The cabin was no longer lukewarm. It was undeniably _cold_.

“Paul?”

Turning, Paul found John awake and upright, blinking sleepily at him with a disgruntled frown. Paul smiled at his companion’s mussed hair and bristle-strewn jaw. He would have to help him shave before they left to meet the plane tomorrow. “I ’ave to get a fire going,” he explained, pushing himself onto his feet. “The heat went out. Best we get one started ‘fore we freeze t’ death…”

Paul made his way into the kitchen, scooping his mug from the bar as he went. Dumping it in the sink, he decided that he should probably start a pot of hot water before going to fetch wood. That way, it would be ready for tea by the time he got the fire going. Furthermore, John needed to eat something-

“Remember Hamburg?”

Paul grinned as he filled the teapot and sat it gingerly on the stove top. “Some of it. A lot of it’s a blur, you know?”

On the couch, John wrapped the blanket more securely around himself, tucking his bare feet up under the blanket as well. “I think about Hamburg a lot. ‘Bout how cold it was…”

“Remember when the loo flooded? And we had to walk around in wet socks for a week?”

“Which time? Seems like we always had wet socks!”

Paul stepped back from the stove, satisfied with his work. The water should be ready soon enough. Then he’d put the soup on when he got back inside with the wood. “Christ… Oh! Do you remember _the hedgehog?”_

John giggled boyishly, his eyes squinted weakly as he tried to follow Paul’s movements. “ _Bleeding_ … how could I forget? Smelled like shite, it did. Sure made for a good ciggy stub though.”

“That it did… that it did…”

Paul made his way back across the room and smiled down at his friend, taking in his gaunt face. John was still too thin for his liking, but Paul knew better than to press. Or, rather, he knew better than to press _too much._

Taking a seat at John’s side, Paul reached to flick a strand of hair from his brow. “You’re looking a bit scruffy, Mr. Lennon. What do you say? Maybe something to eat and then a good wash?”

To Paul’s delighted surprise, John nodded. “Did Alice stock everything then? Have you found any apples?”

Paul tilted his head. “I might’ve seen some in the larder…”

Moving to stand, Paul made his way back into the kitchen. But just as he rested his hand on the larder’s knob, there came a knock at the front door.

Both men froze, sharing a look. Judging by the sun in the window, it was later in the day. But it surely wasn’t late enough for Dr. Anderson’s evening visit.

John looked to the door and folded himself up more securely under the blanket. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Is it Joel do you think?”

Keeping his steps quick but quiet, Paul hurried to John’s side and gestured for him to stand. “Too early for him to be here. Why don’t you-”

“Paul? Paul, are you home?”

Paul felt his heart flip a somersault. Fumbling, he hurried to the door, nearly falling in his haste to pull it open. _How had she-_

The moment the door opened, Paul found himself enveloped in a small albeit strong embrace. “May!” he exclaimed, returning the enthusiastic hug. “What are you doing here? I thought-”

The little woman pulled back and smiled up at him, her dark eyes shining with happiness. “We just couldn’t wait until tomorrow!”

_“We?”_

Looking over May’s head, Paul caught sight of Ned’s car in the driveway. The man himself was swiftly making his way toward them, a broad grin on his aged face. Rubbing his hands together, he called a greeting. “May insisted that I bring her out tonight instead of tomorrow. She wanted some time with him before you both flew out-”

“I just wanted to see him, Paul.” A flash of uncertainty crossed the young woman’s face. “I know I should’ve called first, but-”

“May?”

Turning, they found John struggling to stand up from the couch, the blanket falling away in his haste. As he pushed himself onto unsteady feet, Paul heard May release a stunned gasp. Despite the baggy clothes John wore, the severe depletion of his body was obvious.

“John…”

Stepping around Paul, May slowly approached the other man, carrying herself as if John were a frightened animal. Her steps were measured and her hands were open, reaching out to him, empty and soft. John kept his gaze on her, his brow furrowed as he tried to focus his weak eyes on May. Though Paul had offered him a pair of glasses, John had continually refused to wear them. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was walking around on his own anyway with his foot still bandaged.

At about an arm’s length from John, May stopped, her arms falling back to her sides. Though Paul couldn’t see her face, her voice was choked with tears. “I didn’t know- I’m so sorry-”

In response, John simply shook his head and reached out to her.

Immediately, May darted forward, tucking herself as closely to him as she possibly could. John’s composure crumpled as he buried his face against the top of her head, his body quaking with fatigue and emotion. “May. My sweet bird of paradox…”

Ned joined Paul at the door, his lips pursed as he watched the reunion unfold. “I couldn’t convince her to wait. She insisted on coming to see him…”

“I’m glad she did. The more people he has around…”

“Agreed. I am sorry for showing up without warning though. It was a bit spur of the moment, you could say.”

Paul nodded in understanding before he moved to close the front door. He couldn’t blame them, not really. His own trip had been rather “spur of the moment”, hadn’t it? He certainly couldn’t blame them for doing the same thing.

Slowly, John and May released each other, only parting far enough until they could look each other in the eye once more. Paul could see that John was still trembling and he barely stopped himself from insisting that they sit down. Instead, he looked away and headed into the kitchen. “Care for coffee, Ned? I’ve just set the kettle on for tea-”

“Is the heat broken, Mr. McCartney?”

Paul felt his cheeks flush and he ducked under the older man’s gaze. “I intended to call after we left tomorrow. No point in fixing it, you know, since we’re headed out soon. Anyway, we’ve a perfectly fine fireplace…”

Ned quirked an eyebrow, reminding Paul of Aunt Mimi. “I can take a look at it. See what I can do. In the meantime, how about I get a fire started, hm?”

Before Paul could respond, Ned was exiting into the garage, the door closing behind himself.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed by their company’s sudden appearance, Paul risked a final glance at John and May. The pair were still holding onto each other, whispering quietly amongst themselves with a strange desperation, as if they feared that their time together was short. John’s hand was splayed across the side of May’s face as he spoke into her eyes, his voice low and sincere as his thumb stroked her reddened cheek. His own eyes were glistening with yet-to-fall tears. The little woman was gazing up at him too, so intently that it hurt Paul to see it, her delicately-fingered hand wrapped tightly around John’s wrist.

Swallowing down an oddly hollow feeling, Paul turned away and immersed himself in the relative safety of the kitchen.

Pulling a can of soup from the cupboard, he forced himself to draw a steadying breath. It was a relief to see both May and Ned, really it was. The cabin had taken on a strange feeling with just he and John present, an obvious weight hanging heavily in the chilly air. Considering for a moment, Paul took another can from the cupboard and went about prying it open with the can opener. He wasn’t sure if May ate soup or not, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have some extra. Especially if John was-

The can opener slipped and Paul gasped when his fingertips caught on the can’s jagged lip. Lifting his hand, he grimaced at the wound: three neat cuts across three finger tips, all beading up little droplets of blood.

“Paul?”

For a moment, Paul considered ignoring May’s quiet call. Retrieving a towel from the drawer at his side, Paul turned his back to the living area and managed to throw an unconcerned “Hm?” over his shoulder.

When a small hand lit suddenly on his arm, Paul jumped and dropped the towel to the wood floor.

May stood beside him, a calm smile on her pleasant face. Deftly, she dipped and snatched the towel from the floor, returning to Paul’s hand. “Why don’t you sit with John while I work on tea and soup? I’ve been sitting in the car so long. It’ll be good to move around some.”

Mechanically, Paul nodded and relinquished the can opener to May, his hands shaking and numb. Peering over the slight woman’s shoulder, Paul caught sight of John on the couch. He was watching them raptly, a thousand emotions flickering through his brown eyes.

May nudged Paul in the living room’s direction. “Before he gets cold,” she murmured, giving Paul a knowing smile. With a mute nod, Paul made his way toward the couch on suddenly weak knees. The moment he sat down, John scooted closer, his arms folded tightly beneath the heavy blanket. In the kitchen, May failed to hide a satisfied smirk as she turned and began to wrestle the arrant soup can into submission, soon pouring its contents into the waiting pan.

As Paul nestled closer to John, Ned reappeared from the garage, a bundle of chopped wood in his arms. “We’ll have it warm in here in no time. Really, I should’ve thought about having the heating system checked back when you first called.”

When Paul moved to get up and help at the fireplace, Ned shot him a meaningful look, one that clearly said ‘stay seated.’ Cowed, Paul resettled John under his arm and tugged him firmly against his side. “You couldn’t have known, Ned. I should’ve-”

“You did exactly as you should’ve Paul.” Ned and May shared a look before they returned to their tasks, one stacking logs and the other dispensing tea bags into cups. “I reckon we’re all doing exactly as we should now, don’t you think?”

After a moment more, Paul finally relaxed back into the couch. Really, he was too tired to fight them anyway. His and John’s shared nap had been nice, certainly, but it hadn’t been nearly enough to cut through the exhaustion that had settled deep into Paul’s bones. It obviously hadn’t been enough for John either who was watching his surroundings through half-lidded eyes, his energy having clearly been sapped by the excitement of their guests’ arrival.

Stifling a yawn, Paul rooted around under the blanket until he located John’s hand. “I don’t know if either of you have eaten yet, but there’s plenty of food in the larder and fridge. We’ve soup, of course, and ice cream. Fruit, too. Actually, May? Could you-”

Before Paul could finish his sentence, May was already heading for the larder, a knowing grin on her face. Moments later, an apple was presented to John, red and glistening. “Does this one pass inspection, Mr. Lennon?”

From his position at John’s side, Paul caught the fond look that crossed the other man’s face. He appeared to study the apple carefully before reaching out and taking it into his gauze-wrapped hand. After inspecting it intently, John gave his former assistant an impish smile. “I reckon his one’s alright, Ms. Pang. It’ll do just fine.”

The pair shared a look, a private joke passing between them, before May turned away and retreated once more into the kitchen. Paul watched her go, his chest oddly tight.

At the fireplace, Ned blew on the meager flames he’d managed to coax from the damp wood. “The doctor… Dr. Anderson. When’s he due to come by tonight?”

Paul peered down at his watch, the one designated to show ‘John’s time.’ “Shouldn’t be too long now. He usually comes ‘round before dark.”

Ned pushed himself to his feet with a harsh grunt, swatting his dusty hands against his pants. “Good. May and I can step out while he’s here. For privacy.”

Though Paul doubted that John would mind if they stayed, he simply nodded in agreement.

Paul glanced at John. The other man appeared to have not heard the exchange at all. He was staring down at the apple between his hands, his brow furrowed with concentration. Sensing the tension in John’s posture, Paul shifted his shoulder against John’s own. “Aye, Johnny? Is it too bruised for you after all then?”

John swallowed haltingly. “I can’t do it,” he whispered, his knuckles white as he gripped the apple. “I just… I _can’t_.”

Though he felt the eyes of the other two on them, Paul kept his attention firmly on John. “Shh, we’re alright, calm down. Can you try just a bite or two? Before Joel gets here?”

The look on John’s wan face nearly broke Paul’s heart. It was clear that John _wanted_ to eat. But the anxiety that came with it, the _fear_ …

Paul took the apple from John’s stiff fingers and sat it on the nearby side table, fighting to keep his face neutral. “It’s alright, Johnny,” he whispered, barely stopping himself from running a hand through John’s ruffled hair. “We’ll try again later, aye? It’s okay.”

With a slight nod, John rested back against Paul’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. At one time, he never would’ve allowed such closeness between them, especially never in front of others. The John Lennon of their youth had never been the type to show weakness of any kind. He was a fighter, a sarcastic git who was sharp with his tongue and quick to brawl.

But much time had passed since those days. Fights had taken place, too many wounds had been dealt and left untended to. As Paul had watched John struggle day in and day out, he began to realize that Linda had been right. This John Lennon, the one nestled against Paul’s side despite there being two other people in the room, was a different man than Paul had known a mere ten years earlier. He was quiet and compliant, more timid and less sure of himself. He was still John, of course, but he wasn’t at the same time. It was almost like-

 _He's broken,_ Paul realized, gazing down at the top of John’s head. _He’s broken. Shattered, even. And I didn’t even notice that it was happening._

As Paul tucked the blanket more securely over them both, he caught May’s eye over the top of John’s head. She had clearly caught on to John’s odd behavior as well, her mouth set in a tight frown. Though she looked like she wanted to ask, she continued to quietly stir the soup instead, casting Paul questioning glances all the while. He knew that she would have questions later, questions that she had every right to be asking. But Paul was sure that he had no idea of what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s taking so long to update, my mental health has taken a beating, loves. Bear with me


End file.
